The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  “I thought Thar beat such sentiments out of you.” Terestere cocked her head as she regarded Tak-Larim. He scowled and showed his fangs. He’d ever nursed a jealousy toward Dracodarkind who had achieved the quintessence , who possessed that which he did not. For half-breeds, he harbored hate. Even more so for Thar. “Who’s his teacher?”

  “Yan-Harin,” said Jin-Tarin, short for a Sarhi . He had been one of the first to listen when she chose to flee the Fringes.

  “Is he as hard as when he taught Thar?”

  “Harder.”

  Terestere smiled. Fond memories of those days surfaced, Thar surpassing her greatest hopes.

  “Some of the others will not accept him.” Pir-Mashin was a beautiful female Aladar, the lines of her neck, shoulders, and waist in near perfect symmetry. She did not seem to age.

  “Neither will they accept the ones Thar brought before Winslow … these Dwellers.” Lon-Pashir dipped her head as she spoke. The green-eyed Aladar had ever been one to show the utmost respect.

  “Then you must see that they do,” Terestere said. “Our future depends on it.”

  “And if we do not?” asked Ky-Sanim, meeting her gaze, eyes unflinching. “What if some of us feel we are better off on our own? That we can live out our days within the Treskelin and let the forest take the humans should they try to enter? What if we want no part of the humans? What if we want all the soft-skins gone, even the Kheridisians? Day by day we lose more to the Longing. It ravages us as much as the Blight did. Yet, you wait and stall and plot when we could have done away with them and assumed our rightful place. You,” he added, pointing at her, “were the source of our failure during the Red Swamps. And you are the source of our failure now. We require a new leader.”

  The others hissed. All but Tak-Larim. Terestere simply looked at Ky-Sanim.

  He showed no fear, his chest puffed up in defiance. A smile formed on his lips. “You have been gone a long time, Mother. Things have changed.”

  “So, I see.”

  Ky-Sanim was still smiling when she became a blur that flitted to his side. She ripped his head from his shoulders. Warm blood splashed onto her. She let the head drop. The body followed with a thud.

  Silence filled the clearing. Outside was the night’s steady murmur.

  She wiped blood from her cheek with her thumb and then sucked it off, savoring the tanginess. She regarded them coldly, daring any to move. When none did, she spoke. “It seems some have forgotten who I am. From nothing, I brought us back to a semblance of past life. There are now several broodmothers, but without me, there would be none. I sacrificed of myself, invoked forbidden rituals, gave us life. And I can take it away.” She paused to let her words sink in. The others cowered before her.

  “For those who feel the way Ky-Sanim does,” she began again, eyebrow arched as she gazed upon Tak-Larim, “they’re free to leave, but no longer will they have the protection of the trees. In fact, the forest itself will be their enemy. You’ve been misguided to believe life as pure Dracodar is the only one there is. That includes all of you.” She flicked a hand out toward the forest. The trees heeded her call, the feel of her soul, and parted. They revealed at least a hundred Dracodar and Aladar.

  The voices of the other tribe leaders rose in protest to proclaim their ignorance of the dissent. She let their pleas wash over her.

  “I warned you all of this,” Tak-Larim snarled, voice rising in desperation as he stared from one to the other. “She is no longer one of us. She even speaks like them. She is mad with power. Look what she did to our brother, to one of the First-Born.” He gestured to Ky-Sanim’s headless corpse. “We should have acted together, and we would be free. Free of all taint.”

  A sense of sadness eased through her. “We’ll never be free of the taint. It’s a part of us, in our blood. We delayed its effect with the quintessence , but those days are done. If you can’t see that with all the changes over the years then you’re willfully blind. You say Winslow isn’t Ganhi and feels he can never be, but half-breeds, Sarhi , and Bashi now possess the quintessence where none had before. Times have changed. You still live in the past, a past that is dead.” She held out a hand, palm up toward the trees and those waiting there. “Take those who will go with you and be gone from my sight.”

  Fangs showing, he backed away, hateful gaze not leaving her face. When he reached the trees, he turned and raised his hand. About a third of those present left with him. He railed and shouted, trying to encourage the others, but they wouldn’t budge. Eventually, he stalked among the trunks with his following.

  “The rest of you,” Terestere said, “come into the clearing.”

  They hesitated, many eyes drifting toward Ky-Sanim’s corpse.

  “I’m your Mother. You won’t be harmed.”

  Two older Dracodar, defined by their prismatic scales, were the first to enter. Murmuring amongst themselves the others followed their lead.

  Heart heavy, she released her connection with the forest, the ancient pact she began with an offering of her own soul to the force that called it home. She told the land her contract no longer held. The Longing snatched at her. She wavered, vision blurring before she was able to steady herself and resist, but the throb was harder.

  Screams and cries ensued from the direction in which Tak-Larim had gone. Tree branches thrashed like whips. Animals roared and snarled. And then, silence.

  She opened her mind again, resuming the connection. The Longing abated.

  “Why?” Lon-Pashir asked, voice trembling.

  “I needed to see who would follow him. I couldn’t risk them deciding to attack later or coming into the city to slay me or even worse, to kill Winslow.” She looked to each of the tribe leaders. “I’m not demanding that you make special allowances in his training. What I am asking is for us to put aside our hate for all humans. Not all were responsible for the atrocities against us. We contributed to our downfall as much as they did. Regardless of how any may feel, our future is tied to theirs, for better or for worse.

  “To survive, we must coexist. The Blight destroyed who we were. The Longing continues to deplete us. The past can’t be recovered, but the future can be changed, enhanced. They breed in greater numbers than we, and while we might live longer and be more powerful, eventually their ability to reproduce will win out if it ever came to all-out war. As it did in the past. Just think, it has taken us more than a thousand years to recover from the Blight, and still we’re a fraction of our former selves. A semblance of an enjoyable life is better than no life at all.”

  Lo-Janim spoke, “You have influenced the humans in one way or another, tied strings to them, made them do your bidding. Make the boy their king and be done with it.”

  “I could compel the leaders, many who I have ensnared, but it’s the people who must believe in him. From the commoner to the lowest conscript in the army to the commander. Enforcing such a thing is impossible, even for me. Loyalty must be given freely. When it’s taken, it’s nothing more than forced obedience and oppression. We all know the outcome to both. So, I ask again for your help, of your own free will.”

  But a moment passed before they answered in unison, “We hear and we give with open arms.”

  “Now,” she said, “for the other reason I came. How close is the Kheridisian army? I need to be able to reach them in a day.”

  “Then they are not close enough,” Jin-Tarin said. “They await the rest of their forces and the Farish Islanders where the River Pesca begins.”

  Terestere groaned. The river was too far south. Her thoughts spun. She’d need to rush back to Danalyn and pray the Blades she brought would suffice.

  The rest of the meeting passed with discussions on warrior training and catching up on old times. Mentions of hunting and taming the Treskelin’s hornbears or giant korgan cats and derins brought fond memories. The leaders still planned to hold the Spirit Race in order to alleviate some of the tension built over the past few months of preparations for war. She wished she
could be there for the spectacle.

  Leaving saddened her. Antelen had dipped below the western horizon, and Mandrigal limned the eastern sky in reddish gold when she again rode north through the pass. At the foothills of the Shifting Stones she looked toward Danalyn, noting the smoke was heavier today than when she left. She took it as a good sign, a hint that Lestin had done as asked and was fighting in earnest, yet she couldn’t shake the bit of apprehension that crept in. Pushing the thoughts to the back of her mind she ordered the Jophite to take them east to meet Estelia and the reinforcements.

  After lunch the next day they encountered the other two ereskars. Instead of the usual three baskets, each now had five, the extra two on the flanks near their rumps. In all, each beast carried well over a hundred Blades. Terestere took some of them and had the rear baskets cast aside. Pressed for time, they raced back to Danalyn.

  The closer they got to the city, the more ominous the smoke became, its reek clogging the air. Two days later they came across the first disheveled refugees.

  Danalyn had fallen. The king’s army had fled the city.

  Enraged and at the same time sick with worry, she cut north toward a line of hills beyond which would be the Wetlands. From the hilltops she watched a sinuous line of mounts, siege engines, soldiers, and wagons advance toward Merelyn’s distant towers and walls. She searched for the cluster of Hand of Soul banners that would denote Ainslen’s location but found only the sporadic pennants. Fear crawling up into her chest, she had the Jophite race across the flat, grassy plains, splashing through mud and water until she reached the army. A Blade pointed her toward Sabella’s complement. She found the woman at its head.

  “What happened?” the queen demanded. “I left specific orders.”

  Sabella’s face was strained. Darkness ringed her eyes. “It was the king. He woke and ordered me to bring Lestin.”

  “How? The wisemen were supposed to see to it that he rested. Didn’t they use calum powder to make certain he slept?”

  The Blade shrugged. “He had Lestin get rid of it and sent them away.”

  “Where’s Elder Forstren now?”

  “I don’t know, Your Highness. I haven’t seen him or the ones you assigned since we fled the city. The western army had breached the walls by the time I thought to ask for the wisemen.”

  “And my husband, how is he?”

  “Alive, but he fell unconscious soon after he spoke to Commander General Lestin. They rushed him to Merelyn.”

  Terestere shouted a command to the Jophite. The man yanked on his chains and sent the ereskar speeding toward the city. She prayed the king hadn’t engineered his own death.

  W arleader

  A sea of flames roared around him. Scorched and smoking, he stumbled away from the inferno, moans escaping his mouth. The tattered remnants of his banner fluttered in the wind, its edges burnt, the Hand of Soul torn in half. Someone came to his aid, sacrificed themselves for him, someone whose face he couldn’t quite place. While they died, he partook of their soul.

  Abruptly he was in his bedchamber under the care of Elder Forstren. Lost in pain and craving, he lashed out, killing the Elder and his wisemen. In the act of gorging himself on their souls, a gasp made him glance up. Sabella watched him, mouth open, eyes filled with terror and loathing. Her horrified expression jolted him awake.

  Ainslen sat up. Sweat poured down his face, soaked the sheets under him. Thank the Heavens it was only a nightmare.

  Mouthwatering scents assaulted his nostrils. Pickled eggs, yellowtail eel, peppered goat, and coffee, if he was not mistaken. His stomach grumbled.

  Beneath him was the softness of a featherbed. A softness that begged for him to remain in its embrace, despite the steady argument from his belly. His belly won out. He followed the scent, vision drawn to a table with several platters filled to overflowing, a pot of steaming coffee, and a flagon of wine. A clear glass pitcher contained golden brown mesqa. Considering how he felt, the latter seemed the better choice of liquor. He could use a strong drink.

  Frowning, he took in the bedchamber’s details. The windows were wrong, out of position and smaller than he remembered. In fact, the entire room was off, from furniture to wall trappings to size. He recognized the carvings in the wood panels near the ceiling. They were of Merelyn, the second Sword of Humel.

  Memories came crashing back. The High King’s impostor outside Danalyn. The firetraps. Soulguards on yuros. Miurin’s sacrifice. Sabella carrying him. A retreat. He cocked his head to one side, grimacing at the jumbled thoughts.

  He recalled vague bits of a conversation with Lestin, the man upset by an order from Terestere for the army to defend Danalyn despite the city’s impending fall. Knowing the loss of too many Blades meant complete defeat for the Empire, Lestin had been willing to risk Ainslen’s possible death to prevent such a crippling blow. He’d also believed in his king’s ability to survive. The queen, apparently, was less certain, and thought Ainslen should remain in place.

  Ainslen’s brow furrowed tight at that last. Thinking back to how he’d felt, the burns he knew he sustained, he didn’t fault Terestere for her concern. But she should have known better than to interfere in military affairs. And yet, he couldn’t overlook such an obvious indication of her love.

  Images of his beloved wife bloomed. Smiling amber eyes with a hint of green. Flowing raven hair down to the middle of her back, or curled in a layered bun. Her body, the scent of ginger spice, all of it suffused him, made his manhood rise. He scrunched up his face at a sudden sense of familiarity, a familiarity outside of the woman he’d come to know. It was as if his mind was telling him there was something more, something he was missing, there at the edge of his recollection yet so hard to grasp. His stomach grumbled an earnest reminder of its need. The moment fled.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, the sheet falling away from his body. The king looked down. Except for the occasional discolored blotch, his skin was smooth and fair. Any soreness he might have expected was nonexistent. He strode across lush carpets to the table, sat, and dug in.

  On his second helping of eel and eggs, the great oak door creaked open. Sabella peeked inside and immediately began to apologize. Mouth filled with pickled eggs, Ainslen waved her in. Red-faced, the Blade eased into the room, closed the door behind her, and stood there.

  Studying her, Ainslen took a sip of mesqa to wash down his food. She watched him, eyes wary.

  “I’m happy to see you alive.” Ainslen offered her a smile. “I never got a chance to thank you for saving me. Both you and Miurin. I’m in your debt.”

  She flushed. “It was nothing, sire. I was doing my job.”

  “I consider my life to be more than nothing and more than just your job.” He sat back.

  Sabella’s face grew redder. She shifted uncomfortably.

  “What is it? Does something worry you?”

  The Blade cleared her throat and pointed at him timidly. He glanced down. And burst into laughter.

  After a moment to compose himself, he said, “I apologize for my state. I didn’t expect company and my stomach was insistent. If you’ll excuse me?” At those words she turned and took a step toward the door. “Don’t leave yet, I simply need to make myself decent.” She stopped but did not turn around.

  He strode to a rack with clothes and removed a pair of black trousers and a blue shirt with red and gold embroidery along the cuffs, sleeves, and down the middle around the silver buttons. Sabella stood stiffly the entire time. He shook his head ruefully. “The way you act makes me think you have issues with men.”

  “You’re not a man, you’re my king.”

  “Ah,” he said, taken aback. “I don’t how I should take that.” He pulled on a pair of soft, derin leather boots. “You may turn around now.”

  “I’m sorry if I offended, sire.” She faced him now, gaze averted. “But I don’t look at you as I would other men. You’re the king. Your flesh and skin is greater than a normal man’s. Only one
blessed by the Dominion could possess such.” Her voice rang with reverence.

  His face warmed as he took his seat. “Remember, that’s a secret. As for blessings … someone needs to tell the Dominion I could use a win. But that’s neither here nor there. I don’t remember every detail of the past weeks, but I recall what I did to Miurin.” Sabella stiffened. Not much, but enough for him to pick out the reaction. “And I had a dream where I did the same to several wisemen. In fact, I continued to take from them after they were dead.”

  “It wasn’t a dream,” she said, voice soft.

  He pondered her words but felt little for the wisemen’s fates. “That would certainly explain my quick recovery. I’m sorry you saw that. Who else knows?” He popped a chunk of peppered goat into his mouth, chewed, and listened for a lie.

  “None but me. I was the only guard on duty. I, alone, cleaned up the bodies. When their fellow wisemen asked after them I said they must have been lost when we fled the city.”

  Her words were true.

  “Good. And you kept the details of Miurin’s death to yourself?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Excellent.” He picked up another bit of goat.

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Yes?” The king paused with the food at his lips.

  Her brows were drawn together. “Are you well? I’ve only heard stories about the soul craze, but …” She absently stroked her forefinger with her thumb.

  Ainslen put down the meat and wiped his hands on a cloth napkin. “I’m no more under the influence of the soul craze than you. I made choices to survive and to speed my recovery. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Thank you.” For the first time her shoulders relaxed. The unconscious movement of her finger stopped.

  “Now, with that said, tell me what I missed.”

  She relayed the events since his collapse during the first skirmish. At the mention of the two Soulguards she slew, he nodded, impressed with the feat. Not once did she speak of the wounds she must have sustained. She recounted the growing animosity between the queen and Lestin. For a man not long in his position the commander could be overbearing but had more experience with war than anyone but Ainslen himself. Yet, how can I fault my wife for putting my safety before the kingdom?