Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) (7 page)

Xander turned his back to the Master. The streets below him were emptying as the last light failed. “I have no love for the works of the Guild.”

“You bear bitterness toward me,” Arcanadeus said. “I offer no excuse for my Brothers’ crimes; only amends.”

“Count your coin before naming a price,” said Xander.

“The coin I offer is a chance to prove yourself a man.”

The words set a hook in Xander’s heart. He studied Arcanadeus, Damus, and Nahel.

“I accept your terms.”

Nahel clapped a furry hand on Xander’s shoulder. “Welcome aboard.” The malakh turned to the pontifex. “There’s something I’ve gotta do before we leave. Tonight. Can I count on your help?”

The pontifex shivered. “Let’s be quick. That rite is bad business for the dark.”

“Go ahead and set up,” said Nahel. “Tell your priests to expect a hostile witness. I’ll get the wolf.”

Nahel and the pontifex turned to leave. Xander stopped them. “You captured one?”

“No,” said Nahel.

Xander stood on the sandy shore with Damus and Arcanadeus outside a circle of torch-bearing priests. A cool breeze blew over the Water, and a thin crescent moon hung amid a spray of stars.

“Let the accused come forth for judgment,” the pontifex intoned.

At these words, Nahel entered the circle bearing a long, cloth-wrapped shape. He looked over the shrine priests. “Are you ready?”

The pontifex nodded gravely. “We are.”

Nahel dropped his burden and pulled off the reeking shroud. Xander barely managed to stifle a gasp. Many of the shrine priests failed. The face under the cloth looked much like Damus’, only scarred and dead.

“Time to ask our friend some questions,” Nahel told the pontifex. “Make sure the circle stays closed.

That is a
corpse
,
thought Xander.
Is he out of his mind?

The priests wore scandalized expressions. Angry muttering passed between them until the pontifex shouted over the din. “Brothers! This is a sacred tribunal. Let the witness give his testimony.”

Nahel crouched beside the body, drew a short sturdy dagger, and ran the blade across his own left palm. He clenched his fist, raining scarlet drops on the corpse.

What could he be doing?
Xander thought. The priests’ knotted brows said that they pondered the same question.

Nahel rose and stood quietly, as if in prayer. A moment later, a hissing sound like wind blowing over reeds made itself heard, and the dead Gen’s chest rose.

The priests of Medvia gasped.

“The Mystery’s bound you,” Nahel told the breathing corpse. “Talk so these folks can understand, and don’t lie. Who are you?”

A long moment passed, and the body on the sand made no sound except the sigh of its ragged breathing.

Nahel bent closer. He’d opened his mouth to speak when the corpse sat bolt upright and belched blue sulphurous flames in his face.

Xander started. Others cried out, but Nahel rebuked the body. “Nice try. We’re inside a holy circle, so quit before you embarrass yourself.”

The corpse’s mouth gaped in a hideous, flame-wreathed yawn. Its lips never moved, and its croaking voice seemed to emanate from a distance. “Here is my witness to this circle of fools. Your faith is a farce. Soon your pleasant dream will pass and leave you in the darkness alone. You are forewarned.”

Hideous peals of laughter followed, echoing as if from a deep well.

Nahel folded his furry arms. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“Anything more would be wasted on these apes. The short time left to them would be better spent on other acts performed in a circle!”

Nahel’s canine face hardened, and he thrust his bloody dagger into the corpse’s mouth. “How about now?”

The dead Gen writhed and wailed. At length it spoke again despite the knife in its teeth. “I cannot answer. This soul is held in thrall to one greater than you.”

“It’s not me you should be scared of,” said Nahel, “The one who’s powering this Mystery is another story.”

“You are mistaken,” the corpse-voice said. “I know my master, but you call on a power which neither knows nor cares.”

Xander heard a susurrus of agitated whispers sweeping through the crowd.

“You want to impress me?” Nahel twisted the knife. “Then name names.”

Lifeless breath rattled in the corpse’s throat. “You think your Mystery binds me? The Void's pull—the one eternal Law—rules all.”

“Did the Void tell you to kill?”

The corpse laughed. “Did your devil queen command you to torment captives?”

Nahel growled, baring his fangs. The clucking laughter died as one of his swords joined the dagger in the corpse’s flame-ringed mouth, breaking several of its teeth.

“It’s rude insulting a lady,” the malakh said, “especially one who’s not here to defend herself. And thank your all-powerful Void for that.”

A gravelly whine escaped the corpse’s torn lips.

Nahel withdrew his sword. “Sorry. You say something?”

“Release me!” said the corpse. “Release me now, and I will beg my master’s mercy. Shaiel grants no quarter to those who persecute his servants. Release me, or you will call down Hazeroth his Blade, whose thirst no mortal blood can quench.”

For no reason he could name, Xander shivered.

Nahel pressed his sword to the base of the corpse’s skull. “Or,
my
blade could quench your fire.”

The corpse’s voice rose again, cowering and plaintive. “Do not expel me, child of light. Spare me from my master in the Void!”

“Just answer my questions,” said Nahel. “You were a Gen skin changer?”

“Yes,” said the corpse.

“But you’re not from around here.”

The corpse’s servile tone became haughty again. “I was born in the blackness beyond the sky, where my people spent millennia nursing our hatred for the men who hunted us and our brethren who abandoned us. We are the bitter reaping that all light-dwellers have sown. We are the Night Tribe.”

“But you have the Dawn Tribe’s gifts,” said Nahel.

The corpse’s eyes rolled, fixing a dead stare on Damus. “We took no fiend’s bargain,” it said. “We brought the old faith into the dark, where it smothered at last. But skin changers still appear, though Faerda’s cult is dead. We who were her Chosen now name ourselves
Isnashi
.

The Light Gen’s face looked haggard; almost ghostly, in the torchlight. “What does
Isnashi
mean?” Xander asked.

Damus swallowed as if sand were scratching his throat. “It’s too offensive for present company. If I understand their dialect.
Those who steal from thieves
is the closest translation I’m willing to give.”

“Tell me more about your master,” said Nahel.

“Shaiel rules the Void,” the
Isnashi
said. “Shaiel
is
the Void. His Will is terrible, but all without his favor are lost!”

Xander felt a sudden chill radiating outward from the dead
Isnashi
. The torches dimmed, and their bearers fell silent. The pontifex’s shoulders sagged as if a great weight lay upon them.

Nahel continued his questioning. “Did Shaiel order you to kill that man and those livestock?”

“It was Hazeroth,” The
Isnashi
said. “Even in death I dread his face. He commands the Night Tribe and the black ships that brought us back to this world.”

The ghost of a dream—black halls lit by dim emerald light—broke the surface of Xander’s mind but submerged again before he could grasp its meaning.

Nahel’s amber eyes reflected the firelight. “What does Hazeroth want?”

“He lusts for sport—to hunt his prey on swift wings. We are his hounds among the clay tribe.”

“You came here from beyond space just to hunt humans?”

“Are you as foolish as you look?” asked the corpse. “Shaiel comes soon. His Will directs his Blade to cut a path; to cast down all false idols.”

They are hunters,
Xander thought.
In thrall to this
Shaiel
and his servants.
His own memory of a harrowing chase through the desert night evoked fears he dared not name.

Protests filled the circle. “Pontifex,” said one of the priests, “this is a brazen fraud! The dog-thing is no malakh, but a demon in league with the heathen Gen. He moves the corpse, making it prophesy falsely.”

Xander looked from Nahel, who stood dumbstruck beside the dead
Isnashi
, to the muttering circle of priests. The air felt heavy with the sort of unease that precipitated violence, but his thoughts were far away; somewhere in the desert.

Arcanadeus approached the circle. He spoke quietly at first, but at last he shouted over the clamor. “And if it speaks truly—what then?”

The priests’ outraged voices drowned out Arcanadeus again until the pontifex cried, “Let him speak!”

The Steersman bowed. “My good men. You speak in defense of your creed, and that is wise. But count the cost of rash judgment. God may speak through unbelievers, and willful ignorance of prophecy is a sin.”

“We need no guildsman’s lecture on sin,” said one of the priests. “We—not you—are charged to discern the truth of oracles.”

“I share your love of truth,” Arcanadeus said. “Is it untrue that strange days are upon us? Which of you believed in skin-changing Gen before one was brought here dead and bound? You doubt its witness; perhaps rightly. But heed its warning, and at worst you suffer embarrassment. Ignore its warning, and you may forfeit your lives.”

A susurrus of muttered agreement filled the gathering.

“Continue, friend malakh,” the pontifex said.

Nahel continued. “The Night Tribe serves Shaiel?”

“He has promised to give us this sphere,” said the corpse. “In return we seek the master’s kin—the hosts of the Souldancer.”

Nahel’s face became dour. “What does he want with them?”

The
Isnashi’s
laughter was cowed and gloating at the same time. “The Night Tribe disdains piety, but not enough to question a god! You should know better, malakh.”

“I know that Thera’s the goddess of the Void,” said Nahel. “And last I checked, she was dead. Whoever Shaiel is, he’s putting you on.”

“Whatever you think you know,” the
Isnashi
said, “my master already owns this world. His coddling of Mithgar’s humans will end when the Night Tribe takes possession.”

Wild fear drove Xander to the center of the circle where the dead
Isnashi
lay. The cold raised gooseflesh on his skin, and sulfur stung his nose. It took an effort to keep his words from running together. “You hunted me in the desert! Do you know what has become of my clan?”

A chuckle oozed from the corpse’s blackened lips. The flame in its mouth gleamed like sapphires under a full moon. Xander heard shouting behind him. He turned but had only enough time to see the priest he’d knocked down in his mad rush struggling to stand with Damus’ aid.

“The circle is broken.” The
Isnashi’s
voice dripped with malice that froze Xander where he stood. Invisible arms squeezed his chest.

I cannot breathe,
Xander realized—an idle thought that aroused dull resignation instead of terror.

With a feral growl, Nahel severed the
Isnashi’s
head. The blue flame died, and the corpse crumbled into a pile of ash. Xander folded to the sandy ground, gulping down draughts of air.

A furry hand gripped Xander’s arm and hoisted him to his feet. “Breaking the circle broke the binding,” said Nahel. “You gotta be more careful.”

The pontifex rushed forward and laid his hands on Xander’s chest and forehead.

“Is he all right?” asked Nahel.

The pontifex heaved a deep sigh. “The unclean spirit has departed.”

“A blessing, to be sure,” Arcanadeus said, “though he leaves devilish puzzles in his wake.”

“Who are the hosts of the Souldancer?” Xander wondered aloud. In the silence that followed, he realized that everyone was staring at him.

A shrill note split the night. Every head turned to see Damus lowering his flute from his lips to speak. “Nesshin lore tells of Zadok’s murder at the hands of Thera his child. When the first Well dimmed, a thought entered the hearts of wicked men to seek out those whose souls bore fragments of Thera’s own. Over long years they gathered nine victims—human and Gen, male and female, innocent and vicious—and marred their souls to revive the Queen of the Void. Her power ignited the Great Fire.”

Xander was the first to speak—tentatively, like a pupil correcting his master. “Your knowledge of my people’s faith is impressive, but neither our scriptures nor our priests mention Thera’s revival by wicked men. Where did you hear that story?”

“From someone who was there.” Damus’ voice and eyes remained steady. “I’ve also heard stories of Hazeroth. He’s said to have been a prince in ancient Thysia who unpeopled whole countries in a string of vain wars. For that, they made him a prince in hell.”

“If the
Isnashi
told the truth—” Xander stopped himself before he spoke the rest of his thought:
His kind may be hunting my clan!
Afraid that voicing his fear would make it real, he said instead, “then the Night Gen are a threat to us all.”

“Indeed.” The pontifex’s hand on Xander’s shoulder hinted that the old priest knew what had gone unsaid. “But if they truly have ships that fly between spheres, how can we hope to resist them?”

“Perhaps my Brotherhood can atone for its sins,” Arcanadeus said, holding his rolled-up map aloft like Nessh raising storms with his staff. “If means to oppose the Night Tribe’s conquest exist on Mithgar, they will be found at Teran Nazim.”

Please let that be true,
Xander prayed silently.
And let us find them in time!

Medvia lay silent in the rosy glow of dawn as Xander led Arcanadeus, Damus, and Nahel to the town’s south gate. The odd band stood in the dusty street—the treacherous paths awaiting them ruled out horses—waiting for the barricade to open.

“Why aren’t we going west?” asked Nahel. “That’s where the pass is.”

“This is why.” Xander drew in the dust with his new spear—a gift included among the tent, rope, and provisions supplied by the pontifex. First he made a dot. “This is Medvia.” He moved the spear about a foot and raked it downward in a zigzag line that curved around to the right, fencing in the dot from below and to the left.