Soulbreaker (13 page)

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A
Message

“H
ow long does it last?” A wisp of a smile on his face, Keedar marveled at the colors that swathed the distant western skies. The horizon was a crystal held up to the sun and tilted to refract its light. At night the phenomenon was nothing short of spectacular. For three months the colors had waxed and waned. Today they seemed at their most radiant, helped along by skies finally freed of their cloudy prison.

“I don’t know.” Keshka said. He’d kept to his study in the basement, only coming up to eat or to poke his head out to make certain Keedar was practicing. “Although she spoke about it often enough, your mother never mentioned how long it lasted.”

“Did she ever say how it came to be?” Keedar liked to hear about his mother. The stories made him feel closer to Keshka. And to her. His memories of Lys were a blur of amber eyes with hints of green, dark hair, and a smile that would make him reach for that face. His questions were also another way to prevent thoughts of Winslow from occupying his mind.

“She said it’s caused by the release of magics when the Pillars of Dissolution are opened. And, that it is a herald of war,” Keshka said, voice grim.

Keedar stopped gazing at the sky to regard his father. Face twisted into a scowl, the old man was still focused on the Crystal Skies. A strand of white hair blew across Keshka’s face before it stuck to the sweat trickling down his forehead. “The Pillars of Dissolution.” Keedar returned his attention to the sky. “Delisar mentioned them when he was teaching me about soul. Our people called them the Dragon Gates, didn’t they? Supposedly the Dominion entered the world through them. Some say they lead to the Ten Hells and the banished Angels.”

“Banished Dracodar, if the Order tells it.”

Keedar frowned. “Why would some of us be banished. Weren’t we the Dominion’s chosen warriors?”

“We have nothing but stories to rely on for any of this, but the Order’s Word claims a faction among us slew Hazline and Rendorta during that time.”

Keedar shook his head. Some books claimed the Dominion took the form of gigantic scaled beasts, wings wide enough to span a field. Others said they were creatures in the form of mountains and earth.
Why would they have needed warriors to protect them if they possessed near limitless power? And why would the ones they’d chosen betray them? Better yet, how could a mortal kill a God?

“One thing cannot be disputed: the Dracodar and the Aladar arrived with the Dominion,” Keshka added. “And then, one by one, the Dominion disappeared from the world.”

Still studying the sky, Keedar frowned. “Didn’t Etien venture to the east to find the Pillars, out into the Farlands?”

“There’s more than one set of Pillars.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Those to the east, beyond the Farlands, are the ones through which our forefathers came. Those to the west, in the Fringes—the wastes in the land of Aladel—are the ones through which the brunt of our people fled or were thrown.”

“Fled? Were thrown?” Keedar grimaced as he considered the words. “Why would—”

Keshka finally stopped looking up at the sky and faced Keedar. His eyes were tight. “Nightmares of the old days haunted your mother. First came the Blight, the disease begun by Kasinians, curtailing our ability to breed. To escape it, some fled through the Pillars. Others thought it the final part of a curse leveled against us for our predecessors’ betrayal, and flung their own through the Pillars as sacrifices to appease the Gods. The practice continued when men rose to power.

“It was all an early part of the Thousand Year War that followed, and then came the Culling. The guisers’ tales and minstrels’ songs mostly speak of the glory men earned during those days. The horrific details are overlooked, seen as the great Cortens Kasandar driving the tyrannical, genocidal Dracodar from the world.” Keshka shook his head and let out a breath. “There is some truth to the stories. Emperor Ilsindin was a tyrant, but worse than that, he was a desperate man who allowed his panic to overcome reason. He tried to justify a heinous decision, and thus deserved to be overthrown, but the persecution our people suffered afterward, herded like pack animals, the stockades …”

“The beginnings of the Smear, the Day of Accolades, Far’an Senjin,” Keedar said, voice soft.

“Yes, but before that time, the Game of Souls was not about stealing another person’s soul. It was a duel, fought between nobles and common folk alike, for a chance to win the hand of a Dracodarian prince or princess. It was a thing of honor.” Keshka stressed those last words, expression earnest.

Keedar understood the old man’s feelings. He fingered his shirt as he recalled the clothing he once wore every Day of Accolades, the discarded bits left after a child was taken to be indoctrinated into the Blades, a parent killed for resisting. Many of those children would become heroes of the Empire’s stories: Gothien the Shadow Blade, Myron the Sun Blade, Tharkensen the Lightning Blade, Roslav Quickthrust the Dagger Blade, and so the names went. Despite the status they gained, they were still of the Smear, ripped from their rightful homes. Not once was their heritage celebrated. In truth, many of the Smear’s people had more right to rule than the nobles.

Others might forget, but he would not. The nobility had created the monster that was the Smear, the beast that ate people up, swallowed them whole, left them mangled in gutters, or spilling their lifeblood on a sword’s edge. They had done it to his mother. For all of it, they would pay.

“Have you ever considered asking the old Blades to join our cause?” Keedar asked.

“We did seek them out, only to discover that most of them died soon after retirement. Some say the lack of action stilled their hearts. Others died from years spent abusing their souls. A few had children, but preferred to remain on the fiefs and estates given them by the kings. A few simply disappeared.”

“Too bad,” Keedar said, “we could use them.”

“Yes, we could.”

Another colorful swath caught Keedar’s eye. “Why did you say the Crystal Skies were a herald of war?”

Keshka peered off into the sky again. “Because Elysse would say it, almost like a promise, and she always kept her promises. I told you how we met, how she had gathered many others like herself—Dracodar women proven to be at the height of fertility, to replenish our people, to orchestrate the fall of the Kasinian Empire. But not only that, she was also preparing for a threat against those who wield soul, a threat from the Farlands. According to her, that was the Blight’s origin. I’ve seen enough to believe a lot of the things she said. Some may not understand it yet, but the war is already here.” Keshka strode away, heading toward the cottage, leaving Keedar to ponder his words.

Some time later, Keedar was rubbing Snow’s head when her ears pricked up. The derin stared off into the woods before settling back down. Keedar regarded the man who stepped from the tree line. He hadn’t seen Martel since Succession Day.

Draped in a hooded cloak with thick woolens underneath, Martel the Sword was a mix of Farish Islander and Thelusian, not quite as dark as the latter, larger across the back and shoulders and taller than the former. Sweat poured down his face and beaded his baldhead. His expression was one of disgust as he repeatedly blew air out his nose, failing to clear whatever it was that bothered him.

Keedar fought back a smile. Trekking from the Parmien Forest’s frigid air and down into the Treskelin’s humidity and reek of leafy detritus had taken a toll on Martel. Such drastic changes would have that effect on anyone not accustomed to them.

“I swear this place is one of the Ten Purgatories.” Martel stomped his feet, trying in vain to clear mud caked on the bottom of his boots.

“Greetings to you, too, Martel. What brings you here?” Keedar smiled as he watched the big man poke at the mud with a stick.

Martel grumbled under his breath before he answered. “I’ve brought news.”

“News that couldn’t be delivered by the derins?”

Martel stopped fussing with the boot. “You know me, I tend to be careful sometimes.” He offered a shrug and a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Couldn’t risk this being intercepted.” Even during the plots leading up to Succession Day, Martel had been easygoing, finding humor in most things. The look in his eyes was worrying.

“Won’t they miss you in the city?”

Martel shook his head. “As far as they know I’m off tracking a melder who tried to kill the king.”

“Someone tried to kill Ainslen?” Keedar’s eyebrows shot up.

“Yes. Big fellow with iron skin, or so it’s being said. That’s one reason I need to see Keshka.”

“He’s inside.” Keedar nodded to the door behind him, thoughts caught up in who might fit such a description.

Martel hurried into the cottage. Keedar leaned back, trying to eavesdrop, but the clump of Martel’s boots descended into the basement. An attempt on Ainslen’s life might warrant Martel’s visit, but he sensed more.
Was it the man with iron skin or something else?
All it took would be for one person to follow Martel from the city for his position in the watchmen to be uncovered. Keedar grunted. Martel was almost part animal when he wanted to be; he would have known if someone was on his trail.

Thinking of the would-be assassin, Keedar was still petting Snow when hurried footsteps headed up from the study and out to the door next to him. Keshka was standing there, baldric thrown over his shoulder, Martel beside him.

“Something of great urgency has come up. I must leave for Kasandar,” Keshka announced.

Keedar stopped stroking the derin’s head. “Now? What of Winslow?”

“Unfortunately, I won’t be here when he returns. I will send someone to help.”

“Wait,” Keedar said, grimacing, “you sent him on the test, you know how dangerous it is, but you won’t stay to make certain he’s safe?”

“Believe me, if another way existed I would choose it.”

“What could be more important than your own family?” A sour taste in his mouth, Keedar relived the knowledge that Keshka had abandoned him, left him to be raised by Delisar.

Keshka’s voice became soft. “Sometimes the measure of a man is in making the hard choices, choices that could make those he loves most hate him. The bigger picture, son,
that
is the important canvas. Remember that war I spoke of earlier?” Keedar nodded glumly. “If I do not do this, we might lose it before it truly begins. And then, we lose everything.”

When he had hid on the rooftops watching the Day of Accolades play out, Keedar often berated his people for allowing such a travesty. He fingered his clothing as he recalled his patchwork memento of stolen kids, bawling mothers, and dead fathers. Although he knew Keshka was making the right choice, he hated himself for it.

“Go,” he muttered.

“I hope you understand.”

“I do, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Keedar replied. “Go, I’ll see to Winslow.”

Keshka stared off into the forest. After a moment, he said, “If it makes you feel any better, he passed.”

“He did?” Keedar sat up straight, the heat no longer as oppressive as before, the Treskelin Forest somehow less malodorous.

Smiling, Keshka nodded. “There’s dried meat, fruits, and some specially prepared spices and ingredients in the cupboards. Winslow will need them. I might be gone more than a week.” He locked gazes with his son. “I’ll miss you.”

Keedar remained sitting for a moment before he stood. He’d considered just letting Keshka go, but what if the worst happened, and Keshka didn’t return? He would live regretting not giving the old man a hug. “I’ll miss you too.” They clasped arms and before long they were hugging.

When the goodbyes were finished, Keshka and Martel headed toward the Treskelin. Keshka paused at edge of the forest. “Here, Heart.” The derin trotted from among the trees to join its master. Keshka gave one last wave to Keedar. “Make certain Winslow rests for at least four days. No training until he’s healthy enough,” he yelled.

“He’s looked forward to being a melder all his life, how am I supposed to stop him?” Keedar called back, remembering how anxious he had been to practice his new skills.

“Tell him if he doesn’t rest, his manhood will stop working,” Martel said.

Keedar laughed before frowning. He’d resumed practice only two days after he returned from his test. “Wait, is that true?”

Martel’s deep laughter echoing among the trees was the sole response.

1
3

A
n Ancient Game

Q
ueen Terestere kept her back straight and head up as Ainslen entered her chambers. For over a week she had been on edge, expecting the king ever since Lieutenant Costace of the watchmen, a rather overlarge mixed Farish Islander, had delivered the message of the visit. The wait had annoyed her, but she knew it was Ainslen’s way of letting her know that she would be seen at his whim.

Tall and imposing, resplendent in a deep blue jacket tapered to the waist, silver scrollwork running down the sleeves, and trousers to match, the king made his way along the plush carpets, gait smooth and sure, face implacable. Below precise brown curls his green eyes shone with their familiar intelligence. He’d chosen to leave his personal guard outside the door despite the rumored attempt on his life. Not surprising. Men’s egos often overrode common sense. She shook her head. When would they learn that a man with too swollen a head usually ended up on the sharp end of a sword?

In Ainslen’s honor, she’d chosen a Marish gown, candlelight orange with a short V at the neckline. Too deep would seem indecent and inconsistent with her supposed state of mourning. She had her hair in a high bun and added some makeup: a dab of green on her eyelids as well as thin black lines that followed the edge of her eyes, tapered and extended past the outer corners to give them the illusion of a Marish slant. Ginger spice incense burned in braziers around the room, and Terestere wore a hint of the scent to complete the effect. She’d learned from young what the right words, the right touch, and the right appearance could do to a man, or to anyone for that matter.

A slight bow was all she offered the king as he stopped before her. Here was one of the men at whose feet she could lay the blame for much of her past sorrow. She’d dreamed of this moment, the two of them alone, her hands around his throat or cupping his heart until it slowed and then stopped. But as he stood in front of her, forefinger tapping his lips, brows furrowed, she felt no rage. Only a cold certainty of what she had to do for her people, for Mareshna.

Ainslen’s finger stopped, and he gestured to the cushioned armchair behind her. “Terestere, please take a seat.” After she complied, he followed suit, sitting across from her. “I hope you are well, and have found the accommodations to your liking.”

Spoken as if this wasn’t my home before.
“I’ve been well enough, my king. As for my … accommodations … if one can call being under guard adequate, then I suppose they’re grand.”

“I assigned Lieutenant Costace because he should be a familiar face and would perhaps dispel such bitter sentiment,” Ainslen said. “Unfortunately, the guard is necessary. Not so much to watch you, but more to dissuade those who might wish you harm. I’m certain there are one or two counts who wouldn’t mind your death.”

“Very thoughtful of you, then,” the queen said. “My thanks. And yes, I do seem to recall the man. He’s currently on another assignment, pursuing leads as to the attempt on your life.” The king’s brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, and Terestere smiled.

“Yes, he is.” The king frowned for a moment more before his face smoothed. “Well, you’ve had a most arduous ordeal, I’m sure, fleeing with Adelfried and Cardinton. Where might I find them?”

The question seemed so sincere the queen couldn’t help a twitch of her lips. “Who knows? They could have fled to any number of places.”

He tapped a finger to his cheek, studying her. “Ah well, I had hoped. Tell me, did you know ginger spice was Marjorie’s favorite scent?” His voice was deep and even, but his eyes had narrowed slightly.

“Yes.”

“Do you wear it to mock me?”

“No, I chose it because I know you favor it.”

“And the night at Count Cardinton’s ball … you wore it then, too. You touched my hand, smiled, flirted with me …”

“Ah.” She suppressed a smile at his memory. “Jemare and I argued earlier that day. I wished to make him jealous.”

“So you used me.”

She shrugged.

“Another person would have lied about it to me, seeing that people say I’m a monster.”

“Are you?”

“Several members of your family were executed upon my order. I killed your husband, tore him apart with my bare hands.” Ainslen lounged in his chair, one arm flung across the back. “Wouldn’t you call that monstrous? How does it make you feel?”

You’re trying to goad me, but I won’t allow you the satisfaction.
“I don’t know what I feel. It’s a jumble of emotions, one moment there’s hate and anger, and the next, there’s sorrow and regret. But oddly enough there’s a sense of satisfaction, a little respect. You bested him in Far’an Senjin. In the physical sense, you killed him, but in truth it was the game that took him. I should hold no ill will against you.”

“Foolishness, that last,” he scoffed, “ideas written on paper that pertained to an age when the Game of Souls was really a game. Now, it is more. It is life and death, the future of an empire, our blood. I took something precious from you. Reverse our positions and I would want you dead.”

“I don’t wish you dead for killing Jemare. Perhaps, I should, but tradition has been ingrained into me.”

Lips drawn into a line, he studied her. “When Jemare killed Tolquan, he also had the king’s wife executed. I remember her despair. A part of me expected the same from you, but you’re a stronger woman than she. Perhaps …” His voice trailed off.

“Perhaps?” she repeated, appearing to hang on his every word.

The king leaned forward. “There may yet be a reason to let you live.”

And now the point. Time to change this particular game.
Casually tossing her hand onto the armrest, Terestere smiled. “I could sit here and play the fool, be the quiet, obedient wife everyone saw when I sat beside Jemare, but I’m far from that.” Ainslen’s eyes narrowed. “We both have goals. Mine is to live and return to my former prosperity. Yours is to rule. Both goals are like river rapids: filled with sharp stones, pits, rough waters, and a possible fall at the end. Either we learn to float and ride the currents or we die.”

He was scowling now.

Terestere met his glare. “Jemare’s biggest flaw was his refusal to listen to the people. They hold more influence than we credit them, particularly the dregs.” She held up her hand as Ainslen made to speak. “Hear me out. I might not have been in Kasandar, but word followed me wherever I traveled. Upon my return, much has proven true. The uprisings among the dregs, the Marish rebels, your battle in Thelusia, attempted assassination, the Heleganese delegation you chased away to add another possible enemy, and then the rumors of the western kingdoms.” She paused for a moment to allow him to consider her compiled knowledge. “You too suffer from Jemare’s affliction, but with one difference.”

Brow forming a lumpy mound, the king was looking at her in a different light now. Whether one that saw her as dangerous or with a modicum of respect, she was uncertain. She hoped for a bit of both.

“Although he used them incorrectly, Jemare provided enough that the people did not hate him. He gave the Smear the guilds, allowed them commerce, the Grey Ward for their entertainment, and outside of the Day of Accolades and the Night of Blades, he left them to their own devices. The middle classes and the nobility had the black markets, goods provided from outlawed kingdoms, and the auctions. I was there for all of it, always at his side, providing for those he missed. The people could see me as someone to whom they could relate. A familiar, kinder face, one not as cruel as some minstrels and guisers paint you to be. You asked if I think you a monster. It is not my opinion that should trouble you.”

“You’re too smart by half,” Ainslen said, voice soft and dangerous. “Perhaps you should have been the one enjoying the Soul Throne and its benefits instead of Jemare, or maybe I should simply have you killed.”

“You could.” Terestere shrugged. “And it may be the right choice, but then you would be fighting too many battles on too many fronts. Losing would be inevitable.” Ainslen hated losing and at the same time he enjoyed a challenge. “To secure your legacy, you must first bring Kasinia to heel, starting with Kasandar, and then you must make the other kingdoms follow suit.”

Ainslen chortled. “I
really should
have you killed.”

“Is that a but I hear?” The old lust she knew so well glinted in his eyes.

He gave a rueful shake of his head. “Poor Jemare, I always wondered why he chose you although you never developed into a melder.” She arched her brow, waiting for an answer. Ainslen sighed. “But, I propose a marriage instead.”

“Ah.” She paused for a few moments of contemplation. “I will agree on one condition.”

“Woman, you push your luck.”

Terestere stood, smoothed her dress, and strode across the room, hips giving a slight sway to hold the king’s attention. She stopped at a table and ran her fingers across the gilded box she had a servant retrieve from her things. “You have a love for Far’an Senjin, and if my knowledge serves me true, history intrigues you.” She faced him. “Do you know Tet Dracogis?”

“Dragon Gates? Of course. An ancient game, favored by the Dracodar kings, supposedly one that predates all others. Cortens and several other monarchs were avid players after they defeated the Dracodar. It fell out of fashion.”

“Have you ever played?”

He stood, the hint of a smile on his face. “I’m very good.” He strode over to her, hands clasped behind his back.

“Even better.” She turned away from him and removed the square game board and its silver pieces from the box. There were forty pieces in all, painted red and white. They consisted of the two winged dragon kings, two Dracodar queens, four Dracodar warriors, four melders, four ereskars, four Aladar warriors, and twenty robed cyclers. She gestured to the game. “This is my condition. May I entice you to play?”

“Against you?” Amusement trickled from his tone. He passed so near that she caught a whiff of his scent: fresh and strong.

“I defeated Jemare several times,” she said. “Did you?” Ainslen missed a step. Terestere hid her smile. She’d purposely goaded him the way he attempted with her. On more than one occasion her dead husband mentioned their friendship and rivalry. In their youth, during King Tolquan’s campaigns, the two would play Dragon Gates. Ainslen never beat Jemare.

“Set it up,” he growled.

She placed the pieces on the board, setting up his side, giving him red and the chance to have the initial strike or to defer. The dragon king and a Dracodar queen were first, set next to each other within the castle at positions 5 and 6 Mandrigal, the northernmost central squares. She placed two silver-limbed Dracodar warriors, one on either side of the king and queen. Next were two armored melders. Following the melders were two ereskars, oversized ears and four legs carved in detail, one per side. Lastly, on the first row, in the corners with the Dragon Gates, she placed Aladar warriors, arms done in bronze. The row in front of this foremost line was the vanguard. She filled those ten squares with robed cyclers. When she completed the placements for her side, Terestere smoothed her dress and sat. She met Ainslen’s cold stare.

“I do not play games without high stakes,” he said quietly. “When I first visited I was willing to marry you to serve my purpose, but it seems you think too much of yourself. Ten games. If I should win all of them, I get your head.”

“And my hand?”

“You must earn the marriage.”

She showed her teeth. “If you do beat me ten straight times, I’ll take my own life.”

Ainslen’s eyebrows shot up. A moment later his expression grew hard. “You’re that confident?”

“I am. In fact, I’m so confident I predict not only a marriage, but also an heir.”

“The Kasinian Empire has no heirs,” he said coldly. “There is only Far’an Senjin.”

“True enough, but I always thought a strong ruler should aspire to be greater than his predecessors.” The queen imagined the ideas tumbling through Ainslen’s head as he considered the proposal. A unified Mareshna. A lineage of Cardiffs. The name would become legendary like that of Cortens Kasandar.

Ainslen’s eyes lit with greed. He smiled. “Your suggestion is intriguing.”

“There are possible issues, though,” she said. He tilted his head to one side. “I heard you had a grandson, Elaina Shenen’s child, won’t he also have a claim to the throne. And what of your missing son, Winslow?” With Ainslen’s success, Winslow should have been the one to take over Mandrigal Hill. Instead the king had turned the house over to Katuro, a sinewy minor noble who whispered incessant prayers to the Dominion and had a history of supporting Ainslen.

“Elaina’s child will
never
see the throne. And Winslow is most likely dead.”

She was taken aback by the venom in his voice directed toward the newborn, and the lack of emotion toward Winslow’s possible demise. Was it a sign of a man who coveted what he now possessed, one who had come to terms with his son’s fate, or were there deeper undertones? Intrigued, she promised to revisit the idea at some point. She noticed the king’s frown. “What is it?”

“The subject of children reminded me that you and Jemare only ever had Joaquin,” he said.

“We had trouble conceiving.”

“Such matters are the Dominion’s will.” The king was tapping his chin with his forefinger again. “For that reason I would have you visit Curate Selentus. The man has certain methods and potions that works wonders for fertility.”

“You speak from experience?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, I agree,” she said. “Let us get on with the game.” She gestured to him, palm up, indicating he should begin. “Your move.”

“I defer.”

Lips drawn in a thin line, she made the first move, sending the cycler in front of her dragon king two squares forward. Moving that specific piece first gave one Dracodar the ability to roam the board with its three jumps in any direction as long as another piece of her own did not block its path. It was one of two ways that allowed a Dracodar to leave the castle before the king.