The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  She envisioned the land from her dreams as she pushed aside the canvas and stood on the bench with Nerisse and Clara beside her. A cold wind ruffled Aidah’s hair, but already it felt as if it lacked the edge it once had. She took in flat plains that seemed to stretch forever into the distance, ground whose grass struggled to cling to the last of its greenery, a landscape with sparse, misshapen trees. Up ahead was a large village or town through which the road cut a swath, splitting off into smaller lanes and alleys. Despite the pits and mounds of wet ground churned by thousands of feet, the streets were empty. At her back rose the massive city of Danalyn.

  Smiling, she held up her face to Mandrigal’s warmth and offered thanks to the entire Dominion. She wished Kesta and Gaston had been there to see it and envisioned them looking down from the Ten Heavens. We did it, my loves.

  “What happened to that town?” Nerisse asked a nearby Cleric.

  “Apparently the Caradorii have begun to abandon all encampments and villages like this. They even broke off trade with Danalyn.”

  Aidah pursed her lips. The actions seemed an ominous sign. “Did they give a reason?”

  “None that we know of, but they’re a fickle lot who change their mind on a whim. All we’ve learned of them so far says their decisions hinge around their religions.”

  Aidah nodded. She could relate to choices made through faith.

  Up ahead, Lomin and Fefnir were speaking to a tall man in sand-colored garb and a long cloak. In one hand the stranger held a staff. His skin was like polished bronze. The stranger’s mannerisms toward Lomin made Aidah narrow her eyes. It was as if they were old friends.

  When he turned to glance at Aidah his eyes were a mixture of soft green and brown. She recognized his kind from her dreams. Caradorii. The man’s gaze drifted from her, paused on Nerisse, and then rested on Clara. His eyes widened.

  As if in a trance, lips slightly parted, he strode toward the wagon, his walk an exaggerated swagger, arms swinging and each step done with a rhythmic hitch. Aidah arched an eyebrow. Surely every Caradorii did not walk in such a ridiculous fashion.

  Aidah’s arched brow became a frown a moment later. The Caradorii had eyes for no one but Clara. Aidah placed her hand on Clara’s shoulder and drew her close.

  The Caradorii stopped some ten feet away, got down on his knees as if oblivious to the mud and filth, laid his staff next to him, and bowed, forehead almost touching the ground. Aidah’s eyes narrowed. Although the man was facing her general direction, the angle of his head pointed toward Clara. It might be coincidence, but she thought otherwise.

  “My name is Yeren Tenarel, and I am pleased to serve the shaisenjis,” the man said in a tone of utter reverence, accent thick.

  “You may stand,” Aidah said. The Caradorii’s head tilted up ever so slightly, and his eyes took her in before shifting once more to Clara. A chill coursed through Aidah. “She’s my daughter, and if it is her assent you seek, then you will not have it. I speak for her.”

  Yeren’s face paled visibly. He gave a weak smile and climbed slowly to his feet, not even bothering to brush the filth from his clothes. “I did not mean to offend.”

  “You did not. Tell me,” Aidah said, “why is it that you look at my daughter in such a way?”

  “She is shaisenjis.”

  “And that means?”

  “In your tongue, she is soulsworn.” Yeren must have noticed her puzzled expression because he continued. “The Gods have blessed her with a rare cycle. Such as she has not been seen in these lands since the shadowsouled were completely driven out by Kentaka, the second High King. She is the closest thing to a Goddess, for she might light a path to them. Because of those like her, the shadowsouled are ever kept at bay, and our lands remain prosperous.”

  Religious fervor lit the man’s eyes. She’d seen its like before in the wisemen.

  “Nerisse, take Clara inside.” Aidah watched until the flap closed behind her daughters. Lomin and Fefnir were standing beside Yeren when she turned back to the man.

  “Again,” Yeren said, bowing, “forgive me for any offense. Although I speak your language, I am ignorant of your people’s ways. Being shaisenjis is a good thing. These men told me of your need, of her illness. Because of who she is, not only will she be healed, but she will also be placed above anyone else, even the High King. But you must also understand that anyone who can tell what she is will have the same reaction as I did. It will be best to keep her inside or else you will draw a following to rival a High King’s retinue.”

  “How are you so certain that she is this … soulsworn?” Aidah asked.

  Yeren shrugged. “Her soul, of course. It comes and goes, like the wind. Only the shaisenjis possess the cycle that allows it. Any Jehazite priest like myself would recognize the signs and anyone capable of seeing soul can tell when hers disappears.”

  Dread balled like a fist in Aidah’s stomach. Yeren spoke of the same ability as the Farlander. Yet, he considered it a blessing. Aidah steeled her will against her fear. This was no chance meeting. It was Antelen’s will.

  “Help me save your soulsworn, then. Take us to Casda Esdan.”

  “As you command, so do I obey.” Yeren bowed from the waist. He turned on his heels and swaggered to his horse. Fefnir accompanied him.

  “I don’t trust him,” Lomin said when he climbed onto the wagon bench next to her.

  “Neither do I. Add that walk and I’m wondering if we should take him seriously.” She watched Yeren as he rode toward the abandoned town. “And yet he is what Antelen sent us.”

  T he Shadowsouled

  T ime went, filled with the monotony of the plains that stretched like a brown and green sea. During their ride they passed several more villages and towns, all devoid of any inhabitants. When she questioned Yeren about them, he shrugged, and said the exodus happened every Succession Day. The Jehazite prophecies claimed one such change in Kasinian rule would lead to a great war. Past attacks by the Empire’s newly crowned kings had served to reinforce the prediction.

  They passed numerous Caradorii on their way. Most wore their hair long, done in a fashion that made the locks look like a collection of ropes. The style reminded Aidah of braids after they’d been slept on for weeks. Every person they met offered bows to Yeren. He nodded as if such respect was his due. To Aidah’s utter amazement they all walked like the Jehazite priest, arms swinging and a hitch in their step. She chuckled as she imagined a crowded street in Carador. It had to be quite a sight.

  Through a looking glass that Lomin had brought she saw a city with massive castles, triangular in shape, their tops converging into a single point. Giant steps led up each edifice to a tower at the apex. The sight filled her with hope.

  Most days or nights when they stopped for a brief rest, Lomin taught Nerisse different melds in the privacy of the wagon. The girl became adept at manifesting blades from nothing. She also pulled things to her or pushed them away—small stools, drawers, ornaments, almost any item that could be moved she shifted it, sometimes with force and other times as gently as a feather gliding to the ground. Not once did she touch them with her hands. In fact, most of them were several feet from her. She applied herself to this learning, often losing herself in it. For Clara, not much seemed to exist besides the dolls and the stories.

  Aidah tried her best not to dwell on her daughters, but such thoughts could not be helped. Each night she prayed. And each night she sought the comfort of her dreams.

  They cut across southern Carador and reached the River Ponse, a route Yeren had declared as the fastest way to Casda Esdan. The river was broad and swift and deep, its waters murky. After some haggling with a crew of light-eyed Caradorii and Berendali, the latter as fair of hair and complexion as she recalled from her dreams, Yeren procured passage on the Meranel, a sleek ship with multiple decks. To keep Clara a secret, they boarded under the cover of dark. That night was the first in which Antelen did not visit Aidah.

  Despite her initial distrust for Yere
n, she found herself speaking to the Jehazite priest. He had an easy-going manner about him. He was likable, the kind of person who might bring cheer on a gloomy day. In their conversations she told him of her troubles in Kasinia and what brought her to the west, careful to leave out certain bits. He lauded her for the will to see the children survive and sympathized when she mentioned a need for revenge against Ainslen.

  Days later, Aidah stood on the ship’s lower deck, inhaling the air’s rich scents as the wind billowed the sails. Although the air carried a chill, it was a pittance when compared to that which the Empire would now be experiencing. She was glad for that. Perhaps the improved weather was a sign of things to come.

  “Those lands belong to the serensenjiren—the shadowsouled.” Yeren pointed at marshlands to the ship’s port side, the sleeves of his shirt ruffled by the wind. The swamps stretched from the River Ponse’s rocky shore to a dark line of trees Yeren had named the Sunless Forest. “We do not set foot there. No one is ever seen again if they do. That is why every harbor is walled and is on the starboard side of this vessel. They say the shadowsouled steal children to sacrifice to their demons.”

  “And you believe these shadowsouled are the same as the Dracodar?” Aidah asked. To any Kasinian, the land to which Yeren gestured was known as Kheridisia.

  “It is not what I believe. It is so. They are one and the same. We gave up calling them by their true name long ago. They once ruled the world entire, but they were cursed for betraying one of the Gods, for killing Fate. Every Jehazite priest like myself is taught this story, this history. The Gods cast a shadow over the Dracodar souls, a shadow that brought war, famine, disease, death, and their downfall. Mareshna was forever changed by it.”

  The tale held similarities to one Aidah knew. “The Blight,” she said.

  “So your people name it.”

  “Is that why your people have kept yourselves separate from ours?”

  “Yes. Most believe the peoples of the east still carry the shadowsoul taint. Some even suggest invading your lands to be rid of you all.”

  “Your Caradorii specifically.”

  Yeren nodded. “But they are alone in this endeavor. The others believe in waiting for the signs that the prophets foresaw.”

  “Aren’t you Caradorii? Why do you say they ?”

  “When a man takes the oaths of a Jehazite, all bonds are broken. He belongs only to the Gods.”

  “Ah.”

  “So, these signs, what are they?” Aidah reasoned that if she were to reside in these lands, it would do some good to learn of their customs. Fitting in would be vital.

  “Colors will wash the skies over the Dragon Gate like the lights seen through a diamond held up to the sun.” Yeren had a distant look. “And on that day shall wars come, followed by a time of prosperity like no other.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  Yeren stared across the river, the hair blowing across his face giving him a madman’s visage. “I am old enough to have seen an occurrence of the Blessed Sky. I was but a child then. All the men of my family marched off to fight at your Swords of Humel. None returned.”

  “Yet you hold strong to your faith.”

  “Cling is more like it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, without the light of hope there is only the darkness of despair.”

  She understood those sentiments all too well. Only her faith in the Dominion, her hope of a better life for her children, a chance to save Clara, kept her going, striving to see another day, believing she could surmount the obstacles before her. “If your people harbor such ill will toward mine, won’t they take exception to my daughter?”

  “Such hatred does not extend to the shaisenjis. Those chosen by the Gods are above mortal judgment.”

  She believed his words or that he thought them to be true. She saw it in the way he tried for any glimpse of Clara, how he’d watched with his head bowed as they brought her from the wagon to the ship late that night. Yeren’s reverence was unshakable.

  Someone shouted from the direction of the bow. A horn blared, long and mournful. The sound echoed across the murky water. From the upper decks came more shouts and the thump of booted feet as the sailors rushed to their positions. Aidah did not understand what was said, but she recognized what was in the tone, the pitch of those voices.

  Panic.

  “Raiders,” Yeren exclaimed.

  Aidah’s heart raced. Immediately, she thought of the children.

  Up ahead, and out across the water on the starboard side, over a dozen boats headed toward the ship. The vessels were perhaps a quarter of their size, sleeker in design, and much faster. They flew black flags depicting a red hand. From the angle some had taken, the Meranel would not outrun them. Men gathered along the decks of each boat, bows pointed in the Meranel’s direction. Of more concern were the waves that pushed the boats forward, against the current.

  “If you wish to live,” Yeren said, gaze focused on the raiders, “bring Clara. They will leave us alone when they see a shaisenjis.” Aidah didn’t move. “Now,” he snarled, snapping his head around to glare at her.

  The vehemence in the command set Aidah in motion. She hiked up her skirt and dashed for the cabin door. In her mind she saw her daughters at the mercy of these men, these savages. The images terrified her.

  At the door Lomin met her with his sword in hand. “What is it?”

  “Raiders,” she said, breathing hard. “Yeren says that bringing Clara out is the only way to ensure our survival.”

  Lomin strode across the deck to the rail and peered downriver. After a moment he returned and put away his weapon. Aidah’s hands trembled uncontrollably.

  “From what I saw,” Lomin said calmly, “each boat contains several dozen melders. Strong ones. Let’s pray that Yeren is right.”

  Aidah tried her best not to let her fear show as they entered the cabin. Despite the lamplight, Nerisse picked up on it almost immediately. The girl’s expression hardened and her eyes became icy pools. Clara was on the bed singing to her dolls again.

  “There are men on the way to attack the ship,” Aidah said. “Clara may be our only chance to save ourselves.”

  “Can’t we just fight them?” Nerisse looked to Lomin for her answer.

  “Not with any hope of winning,” Lomin said. “If I knew the enemy then I might have been willing to suggest it, but the combination of their power and numbers are too much.”

  “Take me out to them.” Everyone turned to stare at Clara. The little girl was smiling. “Take me, and Gaston, and Papa out to them. We will be fine. Auntie Teres says so.” She tucked the two wooden dolls under her armpit and held her hand out to Aidah.

  Speechless, Aidah took her daughter’s hand and led her to the door. The others followed. She heard Lomin tell Nerisse to take a hold of her temper and fear, and to avoid making a stupid mistake.

  When Aidah stepped outside she felt as if she were in a dream. The wind sang a low croon. Water lapped against the ship. But for a few barely audible murmurs, the crew was silent. She couldn’t see the ship’s starboard side but the raider’s sleek vessels formed a semi-circle to port. She assumed it was the same around the entire ship.

  She walked toward the stairs that led to the upper deck, her feet wooden like the floor beneath her. Beside her, Clara hummed. Dread gripped Aidah’s heart, threatening to squeeze until it beat no more. Her every footstep was hollow.

  As she gained the upper deck, a hush fell over the crew. The silence was palpable, heavy, weighted like the sorrow of a grieving mother. She could feel the crewmembers’ eyes on her, but more than that, she felt them on Clara.

  Yeren was speaking to a man of similar height and build who was dressed in forest green. The stranger had darker skin than Yeren, and as Aidah squinted she saw that a layer of grime coated the man’s exposed arms and face. The Jehazite priest was gesticulating, and the man nodded. The newcomer’s calm yet authoritative demeanor fit with that of a man who led rather
than followed. Both men turned to face Aidah and Clara at the same time.

  The stranger’s brows climbed his forehead. He said something in a language Aidah did not understand, but she did pick out the word ‘shaisenjis’. Eyes of the purest blue regarded Clara with awe. As Yeren had done, the leader of the raiders got down on his knees and bowed, head almost touching the deck.

  The rustle of clothing and shuffling feet drew Aidah’s attention. One by one the entire crew repeated the gesture.

  After a moment that seemed to stretch for eternity, the man stood. He kept his head slightly lowered as he spoke in Clara’s direction. Finally, he turned to Lomin, and another conversation ensued.

  By now the crew had also gotten to their feet, but none left. They murmured amongst themselves, stealing glances toward Clara. With no idea what the appropriate action might be, and not wishing to offend, Aidah waited. From experience she knew how overly sensitive people could be where religious custom was concerned.

  Voice rising, tone hostile, the leader of the raiders was gesturing toward Clara, his boats, and the southwest. Yeren continually shook his head and offered his own argument. In response the stranger spewed a few sentences with such vehemence that Aidah was taken aback. A vein throbbed along his temple.

  Nerisse hissed. Clara whimpered once and squeezed Aidah’s hand. The mutters from the crew changed from curiosity and awe to agitation.

  Along the railing the wisemen took up positions. They faced out toward the river and the gathered boats. Lomin stepped in front of Aidah and the children.

  Aidah’s stomach churned. Whatever the disagreement, things were not going in Yeren’s favor. She inhaled, long and deep, hoping to slow her breathing, to gather her thoughts. She fought an internal war not to speak up. And lost. “What is it that he wants?” she called out.

  Every voice cut off. She could hear herself breathe. The cold wind was a moan that whipped the sails and set the wind vane atop the main mast creaking as it spun.

  “Telelnen says that by right this ship belongs to him. As does everything on it. He says it should be his honor to escort the shaisenjis to Casda Esdan and the High King. The rest of you are not necessary and should be taken as the spoils of this raid to be used as he and his men see fit.”