Soulbreaker (26 page)

3
6

A
Tale

C
ount Leroi Shenen waited for his men to bring Curate Selentus to the chamber beneath the mansion. Each of the Ten Hills had rooms like it, secret places, smelling of mold, where men could die unnoticed. Not that he thought he would need to kill the Curate, but ever since Ainslen named him Lord Marshal he had this sense of trouble to come. When he met with Terestere upon her return, the niggling sensation increased. With his plans coming to fruition the unease had grown near unbearable. Caution had become a cloak he draped himself in.

Booted footsteps echoed from the hall outside. The door swung open. Curate Selentus entered. He wore the usual robes and black sash. His precise mustache circled his mouth, becoming a beard that flowed up his jawline and temple to meet his hair. The Curate paused when the door closed behind him, glancing around several times as if he expected someone to appear from some hidden niche in the unfurnished room. Sweat beaded his forehead.

“There is no one here but us.” Leroi tried to reassure the man, but the Curate began to fidget with his sash. “I simply wanted a place away from prying eyes and ears. So, what brings you to seek me?”

The Curate swallowed visibly. “News. News you will not like.”

“Oh? Then tell me.”

“First, Terestere asked me to pass a message.”

“Go on.”

“In her name you must swear to do no harm to me or the king.”

Leroi frowned at the request but decided to humor the Curate. After all, such things were just words, but if the man was naive enough to believe it … “I swear, in Terestere’s name, that I, nor any of mine, will do harm to you or King Ainslen.”

The Curate sighed heavily, produced a handkerchief and mopped at his brow. “It concerns your grandson.”

“Jaelen or one of the others?”

“Jaelen.”

Leroi’s gut clenched into knots. “What of him?”

“I—He—” The Curate took several steps back, putting more distance between him and Leroi. “He isn’t Winslow Cardiff’s son.”

Leroi snatched for his sword, the world a scarlet haze, the heat of sudden rage threatening to devour him. And yet, when his hand touched the weapon, he could not draw it. It was as if his arm refused to function, ignored the command screamed by his mind. The promise he’d made moments ago came roaring into his consciousness. He was an honorable man, one known to keep his word. Should he now be like the king he loathed? Quivering, he released the hilt. “Tell me more.” His voice was a hoarse thing, like that of another person.

And so the Curate wove a tale that involved Ainslen and High Priest Jarod. It listed the king’s addiction to soul, how he would steal it from various sources, people that visited him when he was a count, from his own son, Winslow, and of late from the imprisoned Consortium leader. Ainslen’s favorite method had been blood transfusions or by way of mosquitoes that could use
entope
. The king also possessed the ability, a rare one, to activate
baltus
within the inner ring. It allowed him to siphon soul from the dead. Despite his skepticism, Leroi recalled his own visits to Mandrigal Hill when Ainslen was a count, the man’s chambers infested with mosquitoes. He remembered the many hunts Ainslen called every year, the way in which the man always took derin carcasses for himself and was often in the High Priest’s company.

“What does this have to do with Jaelen and my daughter?” Leroi asked through gritted teeth.

“You must hear the story in its entirety to understand.”

“Continue, then.”

“The night Ainslen’s wife and first son died, it was by his own hands.”

“What?”

“Already in a rage over his wife’s wounds, he succumbed to a mild affliction of the soul craze. He believed the guilds hurt Marjorie, and in ways he was right, but still wrong. It was a guild member, known at the time as Killian. You know him now as Count Shaz. However, he was under orders from Jarod.”

The craze.
Leroi had seen a few Blades under its influence. They were madmen, consumed by need, killing without thought or remorse. “Why would Jarod do such a thing?”

“I assume it was some ploy by the Order’s upper echelon. Regardless, the end result was that Marjorie’s baby was stillborn. Consumed by emotion and the craze, Ainslen slew her and Kenslen and partook of their souls. This same Shaz then worked his way into Ainslen’s confidence by betraying the Consortium. After experiencing the craze Ainslen began his hunt for soul.”

“His archaeological digs,” Leroi said musingly, “his obsession with the Dracodar.”

“Yes.” Selentus nodded. “He also blamed Jemare for the death of his loved ones, convinced that if not for Jemare’s treachery with the Trial of Bravery, a secret later revealed by Jarod, that Kenslen would not have ventured into the Smear that night. So began his quest for revenge, which coincidentally led to the discovery of the power infused within the Soul Throne.”

“Power?” Leroi made it appear as if he had no idea, but he’d felt the soul. It had sucked at him.

“The throne was made with Dracodar remains. Any king who sits upon it gives a bit of themselves to gain access to the power it holds. Which brings me back to young Jaelen. In order to defeat Jemare, Ainslen needed your forces to help against the other counts. He had to guarantee that you would not side with Jemare, that you stayed true to your alliance with him. He also had to make certain Winslow would not refuse Elaina’s hand, as he had already done on numerous occasions.”

That last Leroi had no knowledge of. He thought the two young people were in love, even when Elaina complained of Winslow’s trips to Walker’s Row to partake of the courtesans. He would always tell her that the allure of beautiful women was a failing of most men, assuring her Winslow would grow out of the habit.

“So, one night Jarod brought Ainslen to me with a request.” Selentus paused, one hand clutching his sash.

“Go on.” Tension built in Leroi like a coiled spring.

“I was ordered to craft a tincture, one for which I am famous, one to make a man’s seed more potent and to do the same with a woman. Ainslen then gave it to Shaz, who had another melder in his employ work a mindbending on your daughter. She
believed
it was Winslow she bedded that night.”

The scarlet haze flooded Leroi’s vision. With it came images of Jaelen beside those of Shaz. He could see the resemblance now despite Shaz’s scarred features and drooping eye. The haze became withering heat, a fire that burned from the pit of his stomach, spreading throughout his body. The soul around his fist ignited into flames. “Get out of my sight before I kill you,” he snarled.

3
7

O
rders

“D
id you have better luck this time?” Thar demanded, pacing back and forth across his room in the Myth and Maiden. He had pushed himself through the Undertow, drawing on every bit of soul he could, and still he hadn’t reached the city in time. Keedar had fled the ship. Two days had passed since he received word of Keedar’s escape. Two days with no sign of his son. At first he’d cursed his son’s stupidity, but fear soon replaced all other sentiments. Today, the king would execute Delisar.
Today, in all likelihood, I lose a son and a brother.
He breathed deep, seeking calm.

“A little,” Martel said. Whenever the Sword visited the River Quarter he came as Martel Kolnir, newly promoted marshal of the watchmen. “One of the nightwatch remembered seeing a young man who fit Keedar’s description near the piers in the Burrows.”

Thar stopped. “Makes sense. He wouldn’t have gone to any of the inns. Too risky. That leaves the closest smuggling route.”

“I thought the same, so I asked one of my men that I keep stationed near the Moamar Bridge. Says he remembers Shaz’s soldiers being there that night. They clapped someone in chains and hauled them off to Jarina Hill.”

“Hells’ Angels.” Thar began to pace again, mind whirling.

“Also,” Martel said, holding out a note in a sealed envelope. “The merchant left this for you.”

Thar took the letter and opened it. The scribbled handwriting listed a series of Dragon Gates moves. Thar memorized them, closed his eyes, and imagined the board. He quickly formulated the positions, and those became letters, and letters transformed to words. He had to repeat the words several times, disbelieving them although he knew they were to be expected. His heart grew heavy, eyes moist.

“What does it say?” Martel asked.

“I’m not to interfere in my brother’s execution. Our focus must be in locating and saving Keedar.” Saying the words brought an additional surge of pain. For the first time Thar doubted his orders. Body trembling, he took several deep breaths. When he calmed, he crumpled the paper and threw it into the hearth.

“It must be a mistake. There must be something you can do!”

“No, there isn’t. Keedar is more important than Delisar. When he was born and the traits became evident, it was decided then that in any choice of life, his came first. Also, the message says that the king may have returned with several of those Dracodar I warned you of. Kargoshi, they call them … Soulbreakers. I cannot hope to face them, not without more of us.”

“Then call on the others,” Martel pleaded. “Send a message to the Treskelin.”

“I cannot.” Thar’s chest deflated with the admission.

He and Delisar had been through so much. Separated by their parents at birth, one becoming a Blade and the other leading the Smear’s people, they had not discovered each other until Elysse’s intervention. Yet, they were so alike that the connection they developed in the following years had been spontaneous. They’d come to understand each other, had grown closer. And now this.

“Our goal is greater than any one life,” Thar said. “Delisar knew the risk of taking on the nobility when he did. We always knew one of us would be the key that turned the final lock. Ainslen must have his way. If I were to kill him now, then we would fail in our cause, the Empire splintered for centuries to come, our chance gone.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Martel said. “So what now?”

“I do as I’m told. Let’s hope the Gods shine on us. We go to Jarina Hill and pray that my son is still there, and then we head to the Blooded Daggers.” In the back of his mind, he told himself to follow his orders. His heart wished to do the opposite, to save them both.

A knock sounded at the door to the meeting room.

“What is it,” Martel called.

“Visitors, sir,” replied Martel’s manservant.

“One moment.” The big man left.

Thar tried not to think on his next course of action, but the effort proved fruitless. He wanted to help his brother. At the same time he had his son’s dilemma. He looked up as the door opened. Martel entered, and ushered in two people. Thar leapt to his feet.

“Before you say a word,” Martel said, “listen to them.”

“I’m sorry I failed you.” Stomir averted his gaze. “The only way I saw to rectify my mistake was coming here for help.”

“It’s not his fault, Uncle.” Winslow stood with his back straight. “Keedar and I tricked him.”

“Tell him the important part,” Martel urged.

“I know where Keedar is,” Winslow said proudly. “I attached a meld to him as part of our plan to save Delisar.”

“Then why are we standing here?” Thar asked. “Lead on.”

3
8

W
edded to Soul

Terestere watched in the mirror as the maids fussed over her. They tittered on about what color stones would set off her amber eyes, or if the green within them matched peridots, jades, or tourmalines, and whether amethysts or diamonds would be better suited for her obsidian braids. She allowed them to enjoy the idea of making their queen a stunning spectacle for the wedding. Today was to be unlike any other; everything needed to be perfect. A servant hurried into her chambers, consternation writ in her expression. Queen Terestere beckoned the woman over.

“It’s Count Leroi Shenen, my lady, he demands to see you,” the servant said, wringing her hands.

“Show him to the sitting room.” She signaled for those fawning over her to stop, and then made her way to the appointed room. She took a seat with her back to the windows, the morning sunlight illuminating the rich décor, the air carrying a dozen flowery scents.

Leroi Shenen stalked in, strides long and purposeful, hand clenching and unclenching at his side. He wore dark blue today, dark enough to be mistaken for black. Rage twisted his features, lit his eyes afire.

“Count Shenen,” she said, gesturing to the chair four feet across from her, “take a seat.”

He paused for the briefest of moments, perhaps taken aback by her cool demeanor. And then he sat as requested, arms atop the armrests, fists gripping the knobs of wood at the end. He stared her down, or at least he tried to.

“I take it that you’re here to discuss Selentus?” She returned his gaze without blinking, hands in her lap.

“Do you wish to have this conversation here,” Leroi hissed. He glanced over his shoulder toward the door.

“No one in this room will report anything, even if they did hear what passes between us.”

“How are you so certain?”

“The same way I knew you wouldn’t kill the Curate.”

“A bad wager on your part, I almost did.”

“But you didn’t. I would call that a win
if
it was wager.”

“Is it true?” he asked, “What Selentus had to say?”

She shrugged. “You’ve seen Shaz and you live with Jaelen, so you be the judge.”

“Bah, woman, I have no time for games. Tell me straight.” His tone received an arched brow. “Sorry,” he said quickly.

“Since you asked so nicely, yes, it is true.”

The wrath bled from him. “Why? Why tell me this? Why now?”

“Because you conspire to kill the king, and I can’t have that. And because Shaz is a rabid dog that needs to be put down.”

“That may be, but you’ve also made me think the king deserves death more so now than before. They all do.”

“They do, but the king isn’t yours to kill,” she said. “He owes a debt of blood to me. In time I will collect.” He scowled at her, the expression one of defiance. “Fear not, for there
is
a measure of vengeance to be had. You will take it out on the man who raped your precious daughter, and you will do so immediately after the wedding.”

“What if I don’t wish to? What if I insist on the king’s head?”

“But you won’t. You want Shaz to pay. It’s written across your face.”

“Count Shaz is the king’s man. Ainslen will not take this kindly.”

“He won’t, but no harm will come to you. You will report to the king, stating that the Curate informed you of a vile rumor spread by Shaz, one sullying the name of Hazline Hill, and you challenged the count to a duel. Such things are allowed among you, are they not?” Leroi nodded, but she could tell he was unsatisfied. As well he should be. “I’ve provided you a chance to right a wrong, and at the same time, I saved you from certain death at Ainslen’s hands.” She kept her gaze locked on his. “I will tell no one of this, and I guarantee that this Winslow will be found, thus forcing the king to fulfill his agreement with you. Your family will attain a place in the king’s family line and household.”

The count watched her, eyes wary. “What is in all this for you?”

“When the time comes, I will ask for your support, a simple declaration that you are in agreement. As one of the older and more respected counts, your affirmation means much.”

His eyes narrowed, and he regarded her with a measure of skepticism. “Not my hand in killing someone, not some betrayal, a simple show of support?”

“That’s it.”

“Done. However, be warned that I cannot control the other counts.”

“I would not expect you to.”

“If there’s nothing else, I beg your leave.” After her assent he pushed to his feet and swept from the room.

Lips curved slightly, she watched him leave before she returned to her attendants. They bathed her in hot water, the steam carrying the scent of the mint leaves and saffron flowers that littered the ceramic tub.

When they finished, they dried her and applied perfumes of the same scents under her neck, at her wrists, and between her breasts.
Priming me for the king
. The thought brought a wry smile. Not long after, she found herself in a chair before a full body mirror as they trimmed and painted her nails in yellow and white, a Darshanese custom they said, to make her seem all the more exotic.

Three seamstresses wheeled in her gown. It was a grand affair that left her shoulders bare and had a V cutout down to her sternum. Silk, satin, and pale yellow damask panels accentuated the breast area. Farish Isle lace flared from the wrists. The same material made up the hem and flowed into the six-foot tail that would trail behind her. Her shoes were silken sandals with leather soles.

The artists and their make-up came next. They matched her skin tone and covered blemishes, making her skin appear flawless, her face centuries younger. They added a hint of yellow to her eyelids and black at the corners of her eyes to give them that illusion of a Marissinian slant that Ainslen loved. Although accustomed to this sort of work she was no less pleased or amazed.

Maids returned to let her hair out. It fell down her back to her waist in hundreds of intricate braids, the plaited sections ending halfway, leaving the rest flowing like dark water mixed with sparkling yellow flecks. The maids had settled on a net interwoven with dozens of fine citrines, which they arranged on her head, keeping it in place with silver pins.

Lastly, they placed a cloak over her shoulders. Made of pale lida hide trimmed with white derin fur, it fell to the back of her calves. Embroidered onto the back was the Hand of Soul, scaled fingers and clawed nails done in exquisite detail, the magic a soft blue.

At the door outside her room, dressed in shimmering robes, waited the Elder Ten, the eight men and two women who represented the Dominion. Their cloaks bore the respective crests for each God and Goddess.

Mandrigal was a flaming sun on a scarlet field; Antelen, a silver moon over a blue sea; Keneshin, a thunderhead sprouting lightning; Humel, a stone figure riding a chariot pulled by an ereskar; Hazline, a cloud made to look like a puffed face in the act of blowing; Jarina, a dancing silhouette and a cup; Desitrin, a black pit surrounded by flames; Serentar, a landscape of flowers, trees, and mountains; Rendorta, a hammer and an anvil; and Coren, a man and a woman in the act of making love.

Twenty Blades accompanied the Elder Ten, each dressed in leather armor, surcoats emblazoned with the Hand of Soul. When Terestere reached her appointed position between Elders Hamada and Merisse, she signaled for the procession to begin.

They got to the throne room in short order, the place decorated with various pieces she’d bought on her trip to the Avenue. Chandeliers lined the ceiling, their glint like crystal shards. Smiling merchants nodded in her direction in appreciation of the honor she granted them. The crowd of privileged folk drifted to silence upon the procession’s entry.

A carpet, the color of old blood, led the way to where King Cardiff stood a few dozen feet from the Soul Throne. Dressed in bright red with gold embroidery and scrollwork to match his chosen colors, he made for an imposing figure. Around his neck was a chain adorned with the Star of the Dominion. The gem-studded diadem on his head sparkled with sunlight let in through the numerous windows. The king glowed, his nimbus so bright that even normal folk with no sense of their souls might be able to see it.

All the counts were present but for Shaz. She nodded to each in kind.

“My one true love,” the king said as he took her hand. The Blades and Elder Ten took up positions along the carpet opposite each other.

She dipped her head to the king. “Strong words, those.”

“I would not say them if they held no meaning. It might take you more time to reconcile your emotions, to forget the past, but I’m willing to wait,” he said.

The Purgatories will freeze over before I forget.
“Each day that passes makes it better.” She gave his hand a reassuring pat. Together, they turned to face Hamada, Merisse, and the rest of the congregation.

The ceremony passed in a blur of vows and prayers. Elder Hamada uttered the final words, and ordered the marriage sealed with a kiss. She was emotionless when their lips touched, but she made it seem tentative and heartfelt as if it were true love.

Ainslen shuddered. A moment later came a surge of soul that almost took her breath away. She crushed the urge to pull away from the man, and instead forced her lips to linger on his. The day had to be perfect, everything the king imagined.

The ceremony concluded with a toast, the cheers of the gathered nobles and wisemen, and the joyous notes from the musicians, mainly made up of woodwind players, several harpists and lutanists. Ainslen twirled Terestere by her arm before he reeled her back into him. She gazed into his eyes and saw the power lingering there, the hunger, the craze. It burned, a fire on the darkest night. His soul was a coiled beast, ready to strike, and she did her best not to show a semblance of loathing.

“Today will be special, I promise,” he whispered.

“I look forward to it.” She leaned on his shoulder, tears streaming down her face.

Amid whoops and hollers the song dwindled to an end. Each wiseman of a position higher than Mystic drew them away separately to offer prayers to the Dominion. The last of those were the Elders and High Priest Jarod.

The marriage feast began soon after and could have served a small village. The king had spared no expense, providing an abundance of exotic dishes from across the Empire. The attendees ate and laughed, their merriment near palpable.

“You don’t have much of an appetite,” the king said from beside her.

She had been poking absently at her steamed yellowtail. “It’s been a long time since my last marriage, and circumstances considered, I cannot help but think of it, think of him.”

“If there’s anything I can do to make you feel better, then just ask.” He laid a gentle hand on hers.

She nodded. “In time, I will.”

When the formalities ended, the king led her down the long hall toward the door, their contingent of Blades falling into ranks around them. Conversation buzzed from the nobles, their excitement a living thing, charged air after a lightning strike. Before long, king and consort were bundled into a coach and headed toward Deadman’s Gap.

“Whatever happens at the execution today, stay close to Sabella and the other Blades,” Ainslen said. He sat across from her, expression grim.

“Why? Do you expect trouble?”

“Expect is putting it mildly. There
will
be trouble.” Ainslen looked out through the crack in the curtain, allowing in a view of charcoal clouds. “The wisemen will proclaim that the crown is to be passed down by inheritance, as willed by the Dominion.”

“Would any of the counts dare stand against you?”

“Shenen, Hagarath, and Fiorenta most certainly will.”

“But they stood with you against Jemare.”

“And they stand with each other now.” He faced her. “You were quick to remind me of the importance of the people’s faith in me. I have earned some of that, as well as some loyalty from the counts. It’s said that it takes humility, temperance, patience, and a strong will to be a great king, but men who say this often omit the need for strength, the need to induce fear, and the call for respect.”

“Some would argue that those first few bring about the last,” the queen said.

“In some cases, yes, but those traits can also be taken for weakness, particularly among the counts. I taught those three to fear me, and at the same time I gave them a way to challenge me.”

She frowned. “Why would you do that?”

“To earn the respect of all the others,” he said, smiling. “To let them see I am a man of my word, that the riches and positions I offered will be delivered.”

The queen frowned. “What was it that you gave to the three you named?”

“In exchange for their support to overthrow Jemare, I promised them Dracodar soul,” he said. The queen hissed. “I made good on my promise, and even provided them each with an opportunity to duel me. They lost. But when has one loss deterred the determined? I knew they would come again, and I gave them each a reason.

“Shenen feels I will not uphold a part of a bargain I made to wed his daughter to my son. Fiorenta begrudges the fact that I now take a piece of his Calum powder and Bloodleaf business. As for Hagarath, he has always felt he is the only one of full Kasinian blood, and thus should qualify as the rightful king. Give men a common enemy and they will band together. Look no further than our current threat from the west as proof.”

Terestere played out the scenarios. By having the Elders make the proclamation in the name of the Dominion, the chance of an outcry by the common folk was lessened. Although Ainslen would be breaking the lifelong tradition of Far’an Senjin, who among the people would step forward to denounce it after the Order had saved so many? Only the strongest counts would be so bold. The lesser nobles would wait, ready to improve their position in the aftermath. Ainslen had subtly laid out all the pieces in his favor. She was certain he had the successors in mind.

“Are you certain this is the right course? Losing them now will lessen our chances against these western savages.”