Soulbreaker (21 page)

2
5

O
ld Knowledge

“W
e
must
do something, Stomir,” Keedar begged yet again. “At least let us inform my father.” Those two last words ate at his insides. As a father, Delisar was all he’d known for nineteen years of his life. He could no more deny the bond built over all that time than he could his beating heart. He considered another escape attempt, his fourth, but Captain Ezrakel stood at the door of the cabin, and Stomir and Winslow were too close. As they did before, they would stop him before he could leap from the boat or catch him soon after. The captain had men posted on the docks should he try.

News of the pending execution repeated in his head as if he’d just heard it for the first time, a death knell that tolled repeatedly. “Winslow, he’s your father as much as he was mine, you can’t let this happen.” A tear trickled down his face.

Winslow’s face was an agonized mask. “What can we do, brother? You heard what Uncle Keshka said, what he showed us before we left. Ainslen and Delisar will be surrounded by Blades and Farlanders. Without the rest of the guilds, without Keshka, without an army, we would be going to certain death.”

A horn blew outside, a low, mournful croon to announce the Gilded Lady’s departure from the pier. With the sound went the chance of escaping the boat without plunging into the icy water. He did not relish the idea even as he considered it.

“Listen to your brother,” Stomir said. “He speaks sense. What purpose would it serve for you to die? Delisar … we all knew what capture meant when we began this, but there’s a purpose greater than any single life.”

“Easy for you to say when it isn’t your father or family,” Keedar snarled.

“Contrary to what you think, Delisar is my family,” Stomir said, voice strained. “We are all of the same brood.”

“Then how can you do nothing?” Keedar shouted, lips trembling. He wiped snot from his nose.

“I had Ezrakel send his fastest rider out to Perlar. Snow will deliver a message to Keshka. From there, we wait. Until then, we have a task: reach the mountains safely and discover if these ereskars are on the Farlander ships.”

Keedar began to pace, mind reeling. He stopped, staring from Ezrakel to Stomir and back to Ezrakel again. “You said the king finally set a date. That means word of the execution had gone out before. How long ago?” The captain said nothing, but his eyes shifted to Stomir for an instant. “I asked how long,” Keedar repeated quietly. Heat boiled in his chest. His vision clouded.

“Calm down, Keedar.” Stomir stepped between him and Ezrakel.

“You knew too, didn’t you?” Keedar did not raise his voice. The fire of his emotions spread from his chest into his arms, his legs. It consumed him.

“Knew what?” Winslow asked.

“And Keshka? Did he know also?” Keedar demanded. Stomir nodded, lips downturned. Quivering, tears gone, Keedar turned to his brother. “The execution is news to us but not to anyone else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ainslen announced his intention to execute Delisar a week after Succession Day.” Stomir’s shoulders slumped with the pronouncement.

“And my good father hid it,” Keedar said. He’d lost all feeling within himself. The flames of his rage hadn’t guttered and went out. They smoldered with a cold intensity he’d never before experienced.

“So Uncle Keshka lied? I, I can’t believe that,” Winslow uttered.

Keedar gave his brother a grim smile. “My father didn’t lie. He simply didn’t tell us. Withheld knowledge isn’t a lie.”

“He was certain you would react this way, irrationally, with emotion rather than careful thought,” Stomir said. “For months he’s been plotting a way to free Delisar.”

“Then why hasn’t it happened yet?” Winslow demanded.

Stomir shrugged. “Because the announcement itself was a trap to lure Keshka and any other Consortium members. He’s had to bide his time in an effort to find the most opportune moment to free his brother. Do you think he wants his brother to remain imprisoned?” He was scowling now. “Think of what you saw at the auction. That is Delisar’s fate. Believe me, Keshka
will
free him.”

“We should be helping,” Keedar insisted. Unbidden, the images of the Dracodar remains on Succession Day crowded his mind. He could see Delisar’s parts going to the highest bidder.

“We are, by doing as Keshka ordered.”

“But—”

“I’ll hear no more of it. We’ve had a long journey. Get some rest.” Stomir spun on his heels, and left, closing the door behind him and the captain.

Fists clenched, Keedar listened to their booted footsteps drift away. When he no longer heard them, he slumped down on the bed.

“What do we do now?” Winslow moved to stand in front of him.

“Nothing,” Keedar said, the cold within the room seeping into him, “nothing. You heard him, and you heard Keshka. There’s nothing we can do.” A lump formed in his throat, and for the second time in recent months tears streamed uncontrollably down his face. He’d failed Delisar yet again. Coupled with his despair, the exhaustion that he’d resisted during the trip enfolded him like a wet cloak. He drew tem closer and curled into a ball on the bed.

2
6

T
he Avenue

T
he city was abuzz with news of the impending marriage. Terestere had spent the last week under the fawning hands of attendants, seneschals, seamstresses, jewelers, and artists. Two days before had found her in the kitchens discussing various dishes with the chefs, confectioners, and the bakers. Yesterday, she’d dealt with a stream of petitioners, well-wishers, and those seeking favor now that Ainslen had announced his intentions.

Among them were those who had once been loyal to her dead husband. She spoke to each in turn, soothing whatever concerns they had, particularly those who complained of increased taxes and a lack of extra coin from goods once provided by the Consortium. Tired of being cooped up in the Golden Spires, and wanting a difference in choices other than what had been brought before her, she decided to roam some of her old haunts in the Vermillion District. At least that’s what she told the king.

In the company of Lieutenant Costace and Sergeant Morantz, she strode along Cortens Avenue amid an abundance of brick buildings that rose several stories high. Goods were on display in the windows, signs proclaiming the type of trade to be had. The streets were clean for winter, lacking the dirty snow and mud that caked lesser neighborhoods. Laborers shoveled the remnants of the last snowfall onto several carts. She was glad for the absence of rain or snow this day. During her flight the weather had become almost unbearable.

Unlike some other marketplaces in the city, there were no criers, and despite the weather, quite a few folks were out. Most were bundled in rich linens and satin lined with fur, and many wore hooded cloaks. She fit right in among them.

The rattle of carts and the grind of wagon wheels on cobbles rose from the lanes and streets behind the buildings, streets specifically built for transporting goods in a manner that would not interfere with the traffic of the wealthy. Merchants who acquired the most exotic goods relied on Cortens Avenue to shop their wares, and during her husband’s reign it had been frequented by the Consortium, always in secret, of course. After all, the Avenue, as it was called, had a certain propriety and aloofness to maintain.

She wondered how many of the shops had changed hands. A different Hill owned each, and although the houses split the city, the Vermillion District belonged to the crown, and each count paid his tithe.

Not much had changed about the city’s outward appearance in the district. The Winds of Time still stood, gold and bronze hands pointing out the hour, evidence of a greater era. The Golden Spires dominated the skyline, balconies and windows prominent on the ten towers from which it gained its name. However, the people were different.

Gone were the numerous ebony-skinned Thelusians and slant-eyed Marissinians. Most of the folks were pale and olive-complexioned Kasinians. A few hook-nosed, dark-haired Darshanese were sprinkled in, the men in thigh length jackets buttoned to the neck, tall fur hats standing out, flaps pulled down over their ears, the women in dresses tapered to fit their shape in the same manner as the fur-lined coats that fell to their ankles. Several Farish Islanders were also evident, easily spotted with half their faces tattooed.

“Times have changed quickly,” she said.

“Indeed,” Lieutenant Costace answered, the sing-song lilt of the Farish Islands scarcely evident. “The Marishmen were the first to flee the city. The Thelusians followed soon after.”

“At least we gained the Darshanese,” Sergeant Morantz said. “It’s comforting to see my fellow countrymen, particularly when they’re so many Islanders about.” One Islander was too many if anyone let the Darshanese tell it. Costace gave the man a look. “Sorry, sir, no disrespect, sir.” Terestere smiled at the exchange.

She stopped at a fabric shop first. While the owner, Moreth, showed her different materials, many from as far north as Helegan and a few from the Farlands itself, he complained of higher taxes imposed by the king. He mentioned the current struggles of his shop due to the loss of customers. He did admit business had picked up a bit with the announcement of the royal wedding.

When she displayed her interest in a particular piece, Moreth was fully in his element, explaining the differences in silk, satin, linen textures, quality of velvet, damask with intricate patterns, even producing fabric woven with gold threads. She gave him a subtle touch here and there in the midst of their conversation, words of encouragement or sympathy where needed, a laugh at one of his jokes, and it was like she and the man were old friends.

She bought several times more material than she could possibly use, choosing some of his most expensive, and instructed him to have them sent to the Spires. Before she left she assured Moreth that things would soon return to normal and that she would speak to the king concerning the taxes.

The queen visited ten more stores before her main goal, repeating the same process as she got a feel for how people were faring in the city’s upper echelons. At each one she promised them their goods would be given prominent places in the wedding thus ensuring increased sales. People followed trends, and the Kasinians were already wearing their hair in long braids like hers, some even having animal hair woven into their own for added length.

More than all that, she listened to the rumors. A semblance of truth often existed in those. She gleaned that some minor noble was bedding Count Katuro’s wife, Desilere, and Count Hagarath had had his way with Corbel’s two daughters, unbeknownst to their father, of course. The western kingdoms were truly invading; the Caradorii had mysteriously abandoned their settlements; and Helegan and Thelusia were on the verge of an alliance. One of the more interesting rumors was that Elaina’s son, Jaelen, was not Winslow’s boy. She smiled at that one.

Borosen Prestiss’ shop was next. The slender merchant was speaking to one of his armsmen when she entered his store of exotic relics garnered from across Mareshna. His brows inched up his forehead upon her entry, and he shooed away the armsman, who disappeared through a back door.

“Welcome, my queen.” Borosen smiled warmly. “I’m honored by your presence.” He gave a nod in the direction of Lieutenant Costace, who stood guard at the door. Morantz waited outside.

Returning Borosen’s smile, Terestere said, “It’s only fair that I visit one of the most renowned merchants in all of Kasandar. I heard you recently came into possession of some new goods. Quite rare, if what I heard is true.”

“Well-informed as always,” Borosen said. “This way, please.” He beckoned her to the counter behind which he stood.

Inside the glass surface was a variety of precious stones. She perused them. “I have little time to spare and still more shopping to do, so direct me to your latest acquisitions.”

Borosen tugged at his ear. One pull. Most people would think it the act of a man scratching an itch. Instead, it was his acknowledgement of understanding. Spending more time in his establishment than she did in others would draw undue attention. Borosen had been hers long before Ainslen ever thought to use the merchant.

The man proceeded to speak and point out stones and jewels that might be of interest to her. He chose his words carefully, never once mentioning the king or hinting at any business of theirs. Although she was reasonably certain no one eavesdropped on them by use of a meld, she played along, acting in the same friendly manner as she had with the other shop owners.

She produced a strip of pale leather from the folds of her cloak. “Does this look familiar?”

Borosen frowned. “One moment.”

He disappeared into another room and returned moments later with several jars containing various materials. Most were skins or leathers of some sort. After taking her sample he compared them. At last he stopped at one jar, its contents pale, matching her piece. Grimacing he turned the jar for her to see the label. Terestere hissed. Although she knew this was coming, she had hoped the reports had been a lie.

By the time she left she’d bought some pieces of Farlander furniture, a few books on their customs, and several thousand gold monarchs in jewels. She gave Borosen the same instructions for delivery. After a few more stops at other shops of importance, she called an end to the day.

Upon her return to the Spires, many of her deliveries had already arrived. She took her time sorting through them. It was well into the night when she took the books she bought from Borosen and sat at the table with a game of Dragon Gates before her.

Recalling the prices she paid for each book and the jewels linked to them, she soon had four of the tomes open to specific passages. If someone studied the books in the future, and compared them to the originals, they might note the differences in a word here or there. It would still seem like gibberish to them. When she finished mapping the words to the positions on the game board, she had lost track of time, and a set of messages and numbers lay before her.

They chronicled the locations of Adelfried and Cardinton in the Blooded Daggers, the army of Blades sworn to her that flew the former counts’ banners, the remnants of the guilds in the Whetstone Mountains, and the thousands of refugees who had fled the Smear to the old salt mines guarded by said guilds. It provided her with the general vicinity of the western threat, as well as details on the war against the Thelusians and the Marish rebels.

Mention of the Soulbreakers set her heart racing. Such assassins, and the possibility of a rift among the Farlanders, could ruin her plans. They also angered her.
The king belongs to me
.

As she continued to read, parts of the messages brought some joy and a stab of sadness. She regretted she could not be with the few loved ones of hers that had survived Succession Day, but for now, her purpose was in the city.

She sat back, studying the game board. It was time to add to her moves, nudge a piece here or there, call her allies to account. She reached for her quill and began to write.

The next morning she awoke to a message delivered by the king’s personal seneschal. The king requested that she notify the Thelusian Stonelords of her pending nuptials, and set up a meeting with them on the neutral ground of Gartos, a city southeast of the Vordon Sea, to discuss terms. She had a bad feeling about it, but left with no other choice, she sent forth a raven to Thelusia.