The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Tern. Magnify your nimbus against the physical.

  The command came unbidden, one of the many drills he’d practiced under Stomir’s and Thar’s tutelage. He fed soul enhanced with tern into his nimbus. His nimbus broke the next branch moments before his body struck it.

  Although he couldn’t see the ground he knew it was fast approaching. He tried to twist to catch a glimpse of what awaited him, but another branch, a much bigger one, sent him careening in the other direction.

  Panic stirred in his chest. Striking the branches had only done so much to break his fall. At the rate he plummeted and the way the ground hurtled to meet him, he would court the Thirty-Two Winds if he survived without several broken bones.

  If he survived at all.

  An image of his broken body blossomed in his mind. To the abyss with the other melds. He opened his vital points even wider. Instead of drawing on tern , he pulled on hyzen , placing all of his soul between him and the ground. He envisioned a pillow even as his body slammed into the earth.

  Despite the meld and the litter of piled detritus, the impact drove the breath from his body. Agony shot through his back and legs. A cry escaped his lips as he sank into humus. The smell of rot and wet earth became chokingly thick. As well as the reek of … shit?

  Eyes watering, Winslow was lying on his back, the world above a jumbled mass of leaves and branches. He thought he heard garbled voices. A blur approached. He concentrated. The blur resolved into Yan-Harin’s scarred face. The Dracodar’s mouth was moving.

  “You failed. Again.”

  With a groan, Winslow rolled over and climbed to his feet. He tried to ignore the wetness in his groin area and on his ass the best he could. Flushing, he hung his head.

  “Go clean yourself up, you are done for the day.” Yan-Harin grimaced as he turned away. The disappointment in the man’s expression shamed Winslow.

  Laughter echoed among the trees as Winslow trudged toward the gathering of huts that marked their camp. Don’t cry. Don’t let them see you cry. He repeated the words over and over until he entered the hut he used as a washroom. The tears came then. At least he had achieved that much. A meager victory, but he would take it. He peeled off his clothes, wincing as he did so, both from the pain and his own stench, and began the laborious process of making himself respectable.

  “I saw what happened.” Stomir’s voice came from the doorway.

  Winslow stopped in the middle of pulling on a clean shirt and eyed the man. “Did it look as bad as it felt?”

  “Not quite. You were doing well until the last meld. The fall, though. You looked like a wounded bird. Arms flailing, hair flying. Or maybe a wingless bird.” Stomir acted out his words, a smile creasing his bronzed features.

  The smile was infectious. Winslow chuckled. “Was I really that awful?” He shook his head. “I thought I was so close, and then, poof, I lost it all.” He drew the cotton shirt down over his head.

  “You let your fear rule you.”

  “It’s Yan-Harin’s fault. Why must I do one more meld than every other apprentice? It’s as if he wants me to fail. No. I know he wants me to fail. They all do.”

  “Perhaps he does, or perhaps not. It shouldn’t make a difference. You’re the one in control. Despite what the others think, you’re Ganhi , and the son of a broodmother. More is expected of you. Yan-Harin will do whatever it takes to see you achieve the quintessence .”

  Winslow sighed at the name. Trying to live up to it had been a source for all his shame, made worse by the debacle with the scales.

  “It’s not fair.” Melancholy and exhaustion set in. He ached all over. “The rest of them are used to this.”

  “You sound like a whining child. Of course, it isn’t fair. Life isn’t fair. Do you roll over and die?”

  “No,” he said meekly, recalling Stomir’s tutelage. “I must try again, no matter how many times I fail.”

  “Good. Keep that in mind. Supper’s ready.”

  “Thank you,” Winslow said, mood bolstered. He noticed the pack on Stomir’s back. “You’re leaving?”

  “For a time. The Longing has taken several more Dracodar. I go in search of them.”

  “Why? Isn’t it a lost cause?”

  “Don’t they have loved ones? How would you feel if it were someone you cared for … Keedar … your mother … Thar? Wouldn’t you want someone to search for them, no matter how hopeless the outcome may seem? If we can manage to save even one of them, the expedition is a success.”

  Chastened, Winslow nodded. He would have gone to the ends of Mareshna for any of those people mentioned. “My apologies. I didn’t think of it that way. May Hazline shine on your efforts.”

  “And on yours.” Stomir dipped his head and departed.

  After a deep breath to toughen himself for what was to come, Winslow strode from the hut. He kept his head high as he walked, ignoring the snickers and looks from the other apprentices and instructors he passed on the way to the dining area. The majority of those present were already eating, and the scents made his stomach rumble. Their conversation paused for a moment that seemed to stretch forever, and he knew their gazes tracked him. The moment broke; the chatter resumed. Winslow joined the last of the line at the tables where the food waited.

  Ever since this portion of his training began, where he constantly used his soul, his hunger had increased. The food called to him. His mouth watered at the fruits soaking in their own juices; roasted, steamed, and blackened fish; slabs and haunches of meat basted with peppers, sweet sauce, or a mixture of both; some kind of broth from one of the flightless yala birds that called the Treskelin home; and a variety of vegetables, from the leafy kind to brown-skinned ground provisions.

  Winslow heaped food into his bowl. On a whim he took two steamed, green-backed boquin fish. Stomach grumbling even louder now the food was in his hands, he headed to his customary spot by the light of two bonfires.

  Smaller campfires dotted the area, glinting off the commingling of bronze, silver, and gold scales. Aladar and Dracodar sat with each other with no regard for sex or age. Off to one side were the Dwellers: a bunch of humans, the Smear’s outcasts who once lived in the Undertow. The gulf between the two sides was obvious, and it was in that space Winslow chose to find a seat. Neither faction would have him. To the Dwellers he was still a Kasinian noble, the reason for their beleaguered existence beneath Kasandar. For the Dracodar, he was a reflection of something worse.

  “Our vaunted Ganhi has arrived,” Tak-Larim called out with a mocking bow in Winslow’s direction. “You should bless us all with the presence of your scales.” He let out a laugh, copied by many throughout the gathering.

  Winslow flushed and faltered a step but said nothing. He sat on one of the many logs spread about the dining area.

  Tak-Larim continued, “Failure in training, a lack of cycles, scaleless, a crippled hornbear for a mount, and yet we must accept him”. Assent rumbled from too many throats to count.

  Winslow ate in silence. He tried to convince himself that he’d suffered worse in his first days among them, when he didn’t speak their tongue. The scornful looks he dealt with then and the vehemence in the shouts had left him shaken. He still recalled the night he finally spoke, after studying their language with the help of Kel-Nasim and Stomir. The shock on Tak-Larim’s face had been worth it. Some of the Dracodar had regarded him a little differently since, with a sort of grudging respect. He could find none of that now.

  “I thought the Spirit Race distinguishes the worthy from the unworthy,” Yan-Harin shouted, his voice halting the discord.

  “So it does.” Tak-Larim raised his cup in Yan-Harin’s direction. “I will pray to the Eternals for him.”

  “And I will pray for you.” Yan-Harin held up his own drink.

  No further discourse passed between the two, but the tension was palpable. Meals resumed, conversation drifting into other topics. When Winslow finished eating he took the leftovers and headed to the mount pens.

/>   Younger hornbears padded over to the wall, but when they got a whiff of Winslow they slunk away. The reaction confused him, although he thought it was out of some deference to Shags. Which was odd, since Shags wasn’t the most aggressive or dominant. Several others seemed to hold those titles.

  Shags was lying on his stomach, bushy head resting on one forepaw. Torchlight glinted off the single eye studying Winslow. Each afternoon and night he’d brought food, but not once did the animal come to him. Shags would wait until Winslow left to snag the meal. The first couple days the younger boars had fought over the scraps.

  “So, Shags.” Winslow placed the bowl with the fish atop the wall. “What will it be today? Still too good for me?” The bear yawned.

  “Why do you spend so much time talking to a bear?” Kir-Tashin’s melodious voice startled Winslow. He turned to face her. The Aladar was standing on the beaten path near the pens. Two other females of her tribe waited impatiently to one side, fangs showing their distaste.

  “Because he listens.” Winslow shrugged.

  “But it does not understand.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain, but if true, his ignorance simply means I don’t have to worry about his scorn or belittling laughter. Or his hate.”

  “The others’ opinions of you matter that much?”

  “At times, yes.”

  “There is a saying among us that a thing can only hurt you as much as you let it. Thicken your scales so nothing can harm you.”

  “I guess my scales aren’t thick enough then.” He glanced down at his smooth, tanned skin, the shame in his failure rising anew.

  “That is a good thing. When you can no longer feel is when you should worry.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Winslow offered her a weak smile.

  She returned the gesture, hers more genuine. “I must go now, but I wanted you to know not all of us despise you.” With a quick bow, she hurried after her friends who’d already walked away.

  Heart warmed by those last words, Winslow watched her until she disappeared among the huts. A snort and a hot breath made him spin toward the pen. Towering above the wall was Shags, busy swallowing one of the fish, his eyes bright, intelligent.

  “Ah, I had a feeling the boquin would do it, old man.” For a moment Winslow considered reaching over the wall to stroke the bear’s fur before deciding against it. He would go about this slowly, over time, as he’d learned to do with Snow. Leaving Shags to the meal, he strode down the path, whistling a tune.

  Later that night Winslow was lying on the blanket in the hut he shared with Kel-Nasim, staring up at a hole in the roof. The painful throb of his back, arms, shoulders, and legs kept him awake. As did his thoughts. Beyond the knit of straw, the stars were pallid dots on a blanket of pure shadow. The night’s denizens chirped and called within the forest, the rustle of their foraging or hunting often bringing them close to the encampment, but none were so bold as to cross the threshold into the light of the crackling bonfires.

  Another day had ended, and so had another session learning how to improve his melding and to achieve the last cycles. Or rather, another session filled with failure, frustration, and humiliation. His days played out the same. First the monotonous lectures on politics, trade policies, cultural practices, and the like, the instructor’s voice droning on. And then would begin his training in soul. Winslow sighed.

  “It will come.” Kel-Nasim rested on the makeshift bed beside Winslow. The Aladar offered what passed for a smile of encouragement, fangs glinting white in his bronze-scaled face. He’d been one of the few to speak to Winslow since the disaster with the scales.

  Winslow looked up at the sky once more. “Thanks, but I’m supposed to be more skilled than most of you, and yet I don’t have half the control any of you do.”

  “We were wielding soul from birth. Yours was suppressed.”

  “And therein lies my problem. I have mere months to learn much of what comes natural to you.”

  “It is to you, also. I have seen the spurts when you excel.”

  “All luck.”

  “You should give yourself some praise. It took much training over the past five years before I was able to work some of the melds you accomplish easily when you fight.”

  Winslow found that hard to believe. Melding appeared as easy as breathing to the Aladar and Dracodar.

  “It is as Yan-Harin tells you all the time. You think too much.”

  “How can I not think when I must leap to a branch as thin as my finger some fifty feet below me?” Winslow grimaced. “Or fall from several times that height to land on the ground without leaving an imprint or any sign? All of it while maintaining a manifestation of flame or some such. It all feels so … impossible. Give me a blade and I’m at home, but this?” He growled.

  “Balance is key.” Kel-Nasim’s voice was soft, brotherly. “Most melds taught by the instructors require four cycles. Tern to apply less or more soul to a body part, hyzen to move all soul to a specific part, koren to stop your soul completely, and shi to combine them for the effect you desire. The problem is that you restrict yourself to one thing or the other, which works with something as simple as a weapon, or for magnifying a body part, or a basic manifestation, but not so well when you wish to combine them all.”

  The words did little to help. “And I’m supposed to do all of that while not thinking.” Winslow shook his head.

  Kel-Nasim shrugged. “When you raise a fork filled with food, open your mouth, put it in, chew, swallow, all while reading a book and understanding the words, do you think about those actions?”

  “That’s different. It’s natural.”

  “No, it is not different. And for you, melding is natural. You are one of us.”

  “I wouldn’t let the rest of them hear you say that, and it certainly doesn’t feel that way.”

  “What they think and how you feel does not change the truth.”

  “Regardless, such talk would still get you shunned. I’d hate for that to happen.”

  “That is very likely, but I have already accepted it as part of my fate. It is not as if I have not seen it before,” Kel-Nasim said. “My father followed your mother’s example and is considered a sympathizer toward the humans because he believes our futures depend on each other. He would often advise against killing any of them when they wandered far into the forest, saying that carrying word of the legendary shadowbearers or Wild Ones would work in our best interests.”

  “Do you treat the true Kheridisians the same way?”

  “Most of us Pures do. The ones who are more accepting, like Stomir and my father, are either chosen to live among them or volunteer for the task.”

  Pures. The name was another reminder of how much the Aladar and Dracodar thought of themselves. And how little they thought of everyone else.

  Watching and listening to them over the past few months had convinced Winslow the task Thar had given him was unachievable. Even if he managed to master melding, he doubted the others would ever see him as one of them. The rift between the races was too great. As much as the Dracodar had suffered he couldn’t envision a scenario to make them change their hate. Yet, his uncle had insisted he be the one to bridge the divide.

  “If the Pures despise humans so much, why would any of you wish to live among them? Why not remain hidden?”

  “We do not reveal our true selves in the cities. And having Dracodarkind among the Kheridisians is one way to maintain our influence. It helps us spread the reputation of the Wild Ones or the legendary shadowbearers. Who would venture into the forests when reports filter in of soul-crazed killers within its confines? Or that the trees can meld, will destroy paths, and regrow in an instant? Or that the animals themselves are possessed by the madness? All it takes are a few encounters to convince the doubters.”

  “Still,” Winslow said, “humans are curious and greedy by nature, and judging from the bounty hunters and trappers who come into the Treskelin, the ploy doesn’t always work.”
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br />   “The Kheridisian accord means we choose their ruler, so laws are drawn up to discourage such acts. Also, some of us act as guides for those we cannot dissuade, leading them to things we want them to see.”

  “What do they gain from the alliance?”

  “Protection, of course, and not only from other kingdoms. You completed the Fast of Madness. You felt the forest. It lives. Our people believe the Eternals inhabit it, or at least the souls of the Eternals. Without the pact the Dracodar have with the Treskelin, no one would be able to venture into its depths, much less live here. It would take them as it does those who fail the Fast of Madness.

  “All Dracodarkind sense the forest’s pull, some more than others. When it is strongest, I dream of our old home in the Tomb of Shattered Souls, the great sands and cliffs surrounded by oceans, the massive Dragon Gates in our stories. The beauty of the land begs for me to go there. Sometimes, the Gate does also.” The Aladar sighed and became quiet.

  Winslow recalled his experience during the Fast of Madness: the movements of the clearings; the soul that clung to leaf and limb and created a nimbus through which the dire winter freeze couldn’t penetrate unless the trees allowed it; the abnormal sizes to which the Treskelin’s animals grew; the way it always seemed as if something or someone was watching; the voices that whispered to him, encouraged him to venture into the forest. The thoughts made his skin prickle.

  And yet he doubted the forest’s abilities were divine. They were more likely a simple adaptation to survive. Much in the same way a crag goat might grow thick wool for the winter. Or learn to scale a cliff.

  Lost in thought, staring at the room’s darkness above him, and the greater blackness of the night sky beyond, Winslow considered the training to come. The others were well ahead of him in melding. Much of the lessons were to help with riding the mounts in combat. And for the Spirit Race. If things didn’t change soon he would be useless.

  D ay of C hange

  T he festivities for the Day of Change were at their height. Flame and light shot into the sky above the Winds of Time, cast by the dozen guisers hired by Leroi. The melds weaved and danced and painted pictures. Leroi could imagine the people gathered in the square, awed as they listened to the new story the guisers and minstrels had become so adept at telling. The tale of the great King Ainslen Cardiff who’d uplifted the Empire, brought about a new tradition by doing away with the Day of Accolades and ushering in the Day of Change. Or the Day of Prosperity as some had begun to call it.