The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  “I can see your doubts,” Lomin said, “but as a noble you practice Far’an Senjin—the Game of Souls—like it’s breathing. When something becomes the norm you sometimes overlook it. The Order dabbles in the Game as much as the nobility, perhaps even more. There’s a saying among us Blades that the Dracodar might have invented Far’an Senjin, but the Order of the Dominion perfected it.”

  Aidah took in Clara’s unconscious form. Her face seemed peaceful. Aidah pictured Clara’s smile as the little girl played with her favorite dolls. The image of those dolls, dancing all on their own, made Aidah grimace. She drew her daughter close and inhaled the fresh scent of the Koe leaf she used to wash the girl’s hair.

  A tear trickled from the corner of Aidah’s eyes. She and Kesta had been proud of Clara’s melding. The girl was a prodigy they kept secret, her strength in soul a way to enhance their family line for years to come. That had been their first intention before she became so much more to them, more than just another soul taken on the Day of Accolades as part of the rivalries between houses. Out of a wish to see the old ideal bear fruit, could Kesta have been so foolish as to induce Clara, knowing the eventual consequences? Or had there been more?

  She recalled how much he insisted on training Gaston and Nerisse in soul, the things he’d done to see Nerisse grow strong. She shook her head, refusing to believe the idea of him doing something that might harm Clara. That was not the man she married. Was it possible he made the choice because Clara wasn’t truly their blood? Denial again. Clara was their child, regardless of the womb from which she came. They loved her as much as they did Nerisse or Gaston.

  She sighed. Brooding over the possibility of Kesta’s involvement in Clara’s illness would only serve to make matters worse. The important thing now was to find help. The closest of the Order’s chantries was in Garangal. She’d planned to visit it anyway, to seek a wiseman’s blessing, offer more prayers to the Dominion. Now, she had even more reason to do so.

  A List and a Box

  A idah forced herself to watch Lomin and Aran prod at the bodies under the light of torches that cast long shadows. Lomin punctuated the inspection with a kick to the torso of Derega’s corpse. They searched the men and the saddlebags. When finished, they gathered the horses that had returned after the slaughter and led them to the stables.

  She found it difficult to come to terms with Derega’s betrayal. Had she and Kesta not saved him and Lomin, among other dregs, from lives on the Smear’s streets? Lives that would’ve seen them dead? And in exchange for that gift, this is how they repay us. She scowled at Derega’s body. If she was outside she might have spit on him.

  Lips quivering as the news the man had brought bore down on her, she rubbed at her eyes, determined not to cry. Unbidden tears streamed down her cheeks. She repeatedly saw Kesta’s smiling face, heard Gaston’s witty responses. She pictured her son riding one of his horses or delving into his books on Kasandar’s noble houses. She wished to have their favorite meals cooked for them—pumpkin pie for Gaston and yellowtail eel for Kesta—or to spend one last night in Kesta’s arms, inhaling his scent. All of that was gone now, would never be. What am I to do now?

  As much as Kesta had warned her of the possibility that he might not survive Succession Day, the reality proved too hard to accept, a nightmare from which she would not wake. To lose Gaston also was doubly painful. It was as if someone had reached into her chest and wrenched out her heart. Derega had to be mistaken. He had to be. It had been a vile trick by him to get her to surrender. Yes, that was it.

  “Mother,” Nerisse said, voice soft as she stepped in close to lean on Aidah’s shoulder, “do you believe they’re dead?”

  “I-I don’t know, but Clara said they were telling the truth, and, and—” Aidah’s voice failed at Nerisse’s choked cry.

  “Why? Why?” Sobs wracked Nerisse’s chest.

  “It was the Dominion’s will.” The words felt hollow. I’ve always followed the Word. Why would the deities curse my family like this? Eyes burning, Aidah stroked her daughter’s hair. The motion stopped her from shaking, soothed a bit of her sorrow. “We must be strong,” she whispered. “There’s still Clara, you, and I. We’ll make the best of it. If your father is gone, that is what he would want. Your brother too.” She lost track of how long she held Nerisse before finally leading her to the bed to lay next to Clara.

  After Nerisse fell asleep Aidah gathered herself and headed downstairs. For her children she would try to be a pillar. Kesta’s instructions rang in her head as she met Lomin and Aran on the first floor near the basement door. “You two could easily choose to be like Derega. Why haven’t you?” Her gaze settled on Lomin.

  “My birth mother gave me up on the Day of Accolades, like so many of the Smear’s dregs,” Lomin said, “or so I’ve been told, but I can’t even remember the woman. In my eyes she never existed. However, I know what the Smear is like. In the king’s service I’ve walked through the squalor and the shit, spent days in the filth, hunted criminals among its ramshackle buildings and snaking alleys.

  “I’ve seen what the dregs do to those too weak to defend themselves … the rapes, the murders … the memory of them still turn my stomach. When the wisemen picked me on the Day of Accolades, and your husband took me into his service later, they both played a part to save me from such a fate.”

  “A lot of good that did to stop Derega in the end,” Aidah said.

  Lomin shrugged. “Unlike Derega, coin doesn’t move me. As a King’s Blade I’ve but one purpose, one task, a task for which I was trained, and that is to fulfill the needs of my keepers. Without Count Rostlin I might be off in some war or dead on Succession Day, but he saw fit to trust me with your lives. Being a Blade is who I am, all I know, and I serve at your whim now that your husband is gone.”

  Aidah nodded, at the same time wondering if Lomin would feel the same if he knew the Order’s full role in the atrocities he mentioned, if he knew of the people they planted within the Smear to commit those acts, to sow discord and suffering, to make parents give up their children in hopes of a better life. Derega was proof that he might think differently.

  Dismissing the thought, she turned to Aran. “And you?” When Aran had first come to be in her husband’s employ she wanted no part of the man. It was possible to get the measure of a person by looking into their eyes. Aran gave no one that chance. His eyes were shifty, those of a man with something to hide. Years as a loyal servant had slowly changed her opinion.

  “Been hunted before, m’lady.” As usual Aran did not meet her gaze. “Wasn’t a good feeling. Was a member of the Red Beggars when the King’s Blades came for me for robbing a merchant. Lost my brothers when they caught us in the Smear.” He shot a glance Lomin’s way. “Was only Hazline’s will that they decided to flay the skin from my back rather than kill me. Even if the thought of robbing you had crossed my mind, and I got away for a while, wisemen have a knack for finding out things when you don’t want them to. I learned that the hard way. It’s a lesson I’d rather not be taught again.

  “Besides, what’s a man like me to do? If I wasn’t here, all that’s left for me would be the Smear, and I’ve had enough of that sewer for a lifetime. I always said the only good that’s come of the Smear is the Day of Accolades.” He nodded toward Lomin. “Gives a dreg the chance to be more than a thief or a cutthroat, to live to see a decent age. But since I’m too old for the wisemen to choose me, that’s out of the question. With you, I have a chance to be something more than I’ve been. I’ll take that. And to be honest, in your service there’s always coin, a warm bed, and hot food. A man could do worse. Much worse.”

  Both men seemed sincere. As much as she might rather do things a different way, she understood the lack of choice. She had to extend a modicum of trust to these two. If Kesta and Gaston were dead, the remnants of her family would not survive any other way. “Thank you for your honesty and loyalty. I will ask you to do the Rostlin family one more service, for which you will be
paid well.”

  “How well?” Aran arched a brow.

  “A gold round … each,” she said. Their brows climbed their foreheads. Lomin’s mouth opened then closed.

  “That’s …” Aran began, frowning, head shifting from side to side, “Hells’ Angels, that’s ten thousand silver bits. Men like us could work the rest of their lives and not see half that much.”

  “I could have a family, start a farm, or buy a fishing boat,” Lomin whispered, seemingly lost in thought.

  “No one pays that much for a simple task,” Aran said, eyes narrowed. “What’s the job? I might have been a rogue once, but even then I had limits. Never killed an innocent, a child, or raped anyone. Not about to start now.”

  Aidah looked from one man to the other. They watched her intently. This was the risky part. What if they change their minds and wish to rob and kill me instead? What choice do you have? She willed herself to carry on. “All I ask is that you escort us and two wagons to Melanil. I have family there who can help me. Some will be refugees like myself, but at least they’re family.”

  Time and again Kesta had mentioned Melanil as the one place she could find safety should Succession Day go wrong. His rivals would find it difficult to touch her there, if their intention was to be rid of her and the children. Kesta had secreted away enough riches that she could find some semblance of a life. In Melanil she could wait for him again or receive true confirmation of his death. She steeled herself against the stab in her chest brought about by the thought of the latter. Have faith. Derega was lying. The Dominion has stood by you always. They will do so now. The pain eased.

  “That’s all?” Lomin asked.

  “Yes.”

  The two men looked at each other. Aran shrugged.

  Lomin was stroking the scar on his throat. “I want to say yes, but suppose Derega has told others?”

  “A better question is what kind of things did Kesta have sent here that would make Derega want to kill for them, betray his calling?” Aran asked. “And then there’s your daughter.” He left the rest unsaid.

  “Precious stones, gold, coins, rare paintings, and a few other baubles,” Aidah answered. “As for Clara, I’ll seek help at Garangal’s chantry.” She recalled the last week before she left, when Kesta had shown her the nondescript wooden chest. Inside was another box of grey iron. ‘Only if your lives are in danger should you give this to Nerisse. I’ve discussed it with her. She will know what to do.’

  “A fortune, then,” Aran said, nodding.

  “We’ll have to hire a few more men when we reach Garangal,” Lomin said. “In case Derega didn’t know to keep his mouth shut about all this.”

  “Or if whomever takes Antelen Hill decides the Rostlin family is better off dead,” Aran added.

  “Do what you must.” Aidah let out a relieved breath at the men’s agreement. “You two will see to the particulars of their pay.”

  “Yes, Lady Rostlin,” they said as one.

  “Another thing.” She paused, thinking. “I’m Lady Guerin from a minor house in Kasandar, and like so many other nobles, I’m headed to Melanil until the fighting dies out.” The men nodded. “Now that’s decided, let me show you what you will be packing tonight.”

  She unlocked the basement door, had Aran light the torches on the walls, and led them down into the storeroom. The place smelled of mold and age, and the dust made her sneeze half a dozen times. Lomin lit the other lanterns along a short hall with a door at the end. She led them inside.

  Shadows capered as the storeroom’s contents became visible. Lomin gawked. A whistle escaped Aran’s lips. The room was larger than the mansion above, filled with neat rows of everything from furniture to paintings to clothes, each piece worth a small fortune. After Lomin lit the lamps along the walls, Aidah went to a nearby table, picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and on a piece of paper she scratched out a list of things without having to peer around the room.

  “We can pack this up tonight.” Lomin perused the list. “But I advise against traveling before first light. The noise of the wagons would certainly draw the unsavory types.”

  “I’d rather leave as soon as possible,” Aidah argued.

  “If I were a wagering man,” Lomin said, “I’d bet we’re in the safest place for now. If anyone should come during the night, they’ll think twice after seeing those corpses outside.”

  The assessment made sense. “Fine, but we leave at dawn.”

  “Sure thing, Lady Guerin,” Aran said. She scowled at him, and he shrugged. “Just getting a feel for the new name.”

  Lomin nodded to the bony man. “You empty the wagons in the stables while I stack the goods down here. We might have to work through the night to get this done.” Aran grumbled something about a big strapping Blade getting to do the easy work before he headed back through the storeroom. When the armsman was gone, Lomin walked to the door, peered out, and then turned to Aidah. “There’s something you must see.” He produced a sheet of paper from inside his cloak.

  “What is it?”

  “Look for yourself.” He handed it to her.

  Aidah’s eyes widened as she read the words, the neatness of the handwriting suggesting an educated person had composed them. It was a list. A list of nobles wanted by King Ainslen. Beside each name was their worth in coin. For her and the children, the king would pay a gold monarch. Each. Neither the names of Gaston nor Kesta were present. She tried to think of the omission as a good sign, even if her heart hinted at the opposite.

  “I found it on Derega,” Lomin said. “And while I trust Aran for the most part, that’s ten times what you offered us. I don’t have a price, but I can’t speak for him. You might not feel it now, but eventually a part of you will crave vengeance for all this. Nothing short of a war could bring you that. Such an undertaking is well beyond our capability. Might as well wish for the Dominion to leave the Heavens and speak to us. My advice, if you wish it, is to seek sanctuary with the Order when we arrive in Garangal. That should keep you safe when we head to the Chanting City.”

  The man’s words washed over Aidah. “Leave me, and speak of this to no one.” When he left, Aidah sat on a dusty chair with the list in her hand. On it were several other members of her family, the same ones she intended to meet in Melanil. Their names were crossed out. She envisioned them, chased and cut down by Derega like a hound during the hunt. Her body shook.

  After she gathered herself, Aidah crossed the room to a table upon which sat the wooden box Kesta had treated with reverence. Despite the metal container inside, it wasn’t heavy. Soon, she would talk with Nerisse about its contents. She cradled the box under her arm and carried it upstairs. Having it in her possession brought a surge of hope. Kesta had another like it. If he partook of what lay inside he might still be alive. She clung to that thought.

  D enial

  A idah covered Clara with a fur-lined coat and piled two thick blankets atop her. For the first time since the events at the estate the girl was resting peacefully. A feat in itself with the way the wagon rattled, wheels bouncing on rutted ground. Added to the jarring ride were the brays and reek of the byagas that pulled them. Lomin’s shouts could be heard amid the din as he urged the beasts on, cracking his whip.

  Four days had passed since that night, but it could’ve been yesterday, such was the clarity with which Aidah recalled it. Clara had regained her color, but she ate sparingly. She also hadn’t spoken much and spent the majority of the day and night in spurts of fitful sleep, waking abruptly to scream for her father or brother. The one good sign was Lomin’s report that Clara’s nimbus was growing stronger.

  Nerisse kept to the wagon’s rear, huddled in her coat, staring out the slit of an opening. She, too, had said little since they abandoned the estate. Whenever they stopped she took to practicing with the short sword Kesta had given her so long ago when he began her training.

  The trip so far had been a grueling one, spent without much rest from dawn until night. Nightmares plagu
es what little sleep Aidah found. Most of them were of Ainslen’s bounty hunters chasing them down. She saw the children die on several occasions, and each time she woke sweaty and frantic.

  Along the way they encountered numerous refugees from Kasandar. Most were Kasinians, a few bearing the olive skin of nobles, but many more with the sandalwood complexion of poor folk. Thelusians stood head and shoulders above everyone else, skin so dark it shone. A few slant-eyed Marishmen were sprinkled in among the crowds, most on foot. Aidah avoided those of obvious noble standing but sent Lomin to speak to the commoners. She hoped for any small word of Kesta and Gaston. Any rumor that they lived. He returned with the same story every time.

  Kesta was dead, Antelen Hill ransacked, part of the mansion burned. Those known to be of the Rostlin family line had been put to the sword. Rumor had it that the attack was Ainslen’s doing.

  According to one person, Gaston’s supposed death was even more of a mystery but was part of the reason for the suspicion cast on the new king. His body had been found on Mandrigal Hill during a battle begun by the Consortium at Ainslen’s auction. Why would Gaston be at Ainslen’s mansion? She asked herself the question daily. It made her doubt the tale. However, logic pointed to a ploy by the new king to be rid of her husband, the one man who might prove a threat to his fledgling rule.

  How do I tell Clara and Nerisse we’re all that’s left of the family? That their uncles, aunts, and cousins are dead? No. We’re not the last. This is one big conspiracy. Say the right words to the right ears and one could make anything become truth. That was one strategy employed in Far’an Senjin. She’d used it herself on occasion to build support for her husband.