Soulsworn
Authors: Terry C. Simpson
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Coming of Age, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Epic, #New Adult & College, #Sword & Sorcery, #Fantasy, #Soulbreaker, #Game of Souls, #Epic Fantasy, #the Quintessence Cycle
Aegis of the Gods
Etchings of Power
The Shadowbearer
Ashes and Blood
Embers of a Broken Throne
The Quintessence Cycle
Game of Souls
Soulsworn
Soulbreaker
The Arcanus Archives
Shadeborn
Soulsworn is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Golden Arm Press
Copyright © September 2014 Terry C. Simpson All rights reserved
Mapwork by Terry C. Simpson
The right of Terry C. Simpson to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
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terrycsimpson.com
or
@TeeSimps
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or
Alexandria Publishing Group
ISBN: 978-1-939172-15-0
Kindle Edition
T
able of Contents
As always, to my beautiful daughter Kai. When I started working on my books you weren’t born yet. I published my first when you were three. You’re about to be six now and this is my eighth book. It is for you, and for those who enjoy reading my work that I do this. Maybe one day we will work on your Legend of the Eyeball Monster together.
Love, Daddy.
M
y daughters are all that matter.
That was her daily mantra. Aidah Rostlin watched them from the upstairs window of the estate’s main bedroom and smiled a somber smile. One was at play and the other at practice. “My daughters are all that matter.” The words felt better when she said them. And yet saying them did nothing to diminish the images of her husband and son. Those two should have arrived weeks ago.
Where were they? What was the cause for the delay?
Her eldest daughter, Nerisse, swayed in a battle dance, feet sliding through the short, hardy grass, each movement precise, a reenactment of the commands called out by Blade Lomin’s raspy voice. The man sat on the porch stairs, scabbarded sword across his lap, inspecting Nerisse’s every move, and scowling whenever she made a mistake.
Sweat poured down Nerisse’s face, soaked her loose shirt and britches despite the advance of winter’s chill. Nerisse’s choice of clothing, and hair done in a ponytail, reminded Aidah so much of the girl’s brother that she wanted to look away. But Gaston had not been much for combat. He preferred books and horses.
The practice session would have made Nerisse’s father proud. Kesta Rostlin loved the rigors of training. Although, Aidah had to admit, Kesta’s sessions with their daughter did not seem quite as reckless as what Lomin taught. Lomin had Nerisse take risks that left her exposed, that Kesta would’ve warned against. Aidah supposed such techniques were how Lomin earned his true name as the Suicidal Blade. At some point she would advise him to teach the girl to be safer. For now, this would do to keep her occupied.
Up on the porch, little Clara played with her dolls. She giggled and laughed and offered them a drink from imaginary cups. At least she wasn’t making them walk on their own as she was wont to do in the privacy of the bedroom. Aidah was glad for that. Such displays were to remain secret.
Aidah’s attention shifted to the grassy fields, the trees that dotted them, and out to the hills topped by sunlight. Mandrigal was a hazy orange ball that sat low in the western sky, on his way to his nightly resting place. Already Antelen climbed in the east, her glow cold and pallid. The stars had not yet come to accompany her.
Another day was ending, and neither Kesta nor Gaston had arrived. Aidah sighed, longing for things to be different, longing for her complete family. To be with only half of them was akin to missing an arm or a leg. How am I supposed to function?
She knew she had to stay the course, to be patient while the Gods delivered, but every day such perseverance became a feat. Faith. She could not remember a day she did not have it. If she prayed hard and long enough, if she lived a morally upstanding life, if she placed her trust in the Dominion, they would deliver. Simple. At least it sounded that way. In truth, maintaining such faith in the darkest of times, when the Gods seemed to not hear her pleas, was difficult beyond description. Still, she tried.
Aidah watched the girls until Mandrigal fled the sky and a tide of shadows inched across the land. Candleflies blinked on and off out in the fields. She called for her daughters to attend her. Another day had come and gone, another day with no additional news of her husband and son, another day where hope and dread warred for prominence in her gut.
At night, when Antelen glided across the sky, her silvery glow enveloping the land, Aidah’s optimism would grow perilously close to despair. Hope returned only when Mandrigal lit the horizon at dawn, burnt away the darkness. But days spent believing in good fortune grew more difficult, dire news seeming as inevitable as those same shadows bleeding black down the hills and creeping across the fields.
Two months had passed since the fighting in Kasandar began on Succession Day, since Kesta made her flee with Nerisse and Clara, since he and Ainslen Cardiff had begun their assault on the old king’s forces. Two months. Too long.
Word had come, carried on the dark wings of Kesta’s ravens, that Ainslen Cardiff had killed King Jemare and taken the Soul Throne. Succession Day had ended, their cause victorious. So went her husband’s last message.
She expected another missive, one to say Kesta was on his way to bring the family home to Kasandar. And so, she waited, hidden away on their estate in the Whetstone Mountains’ foothills. Aidah closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. The lack of further contact made her stomach knot, reminded her of days in her youth when Kesta had gone to war, and she would stay up at night, praying to the Dominion for his health. Faith offered strength her heart found difficult to conjure.
The girls entered the room and came to stand beside Aidah. She rested one hand on Clara’s head.
“Mama, when’s Papa and Gaston coming?” Clara stared out the bedroom window, wooden doll clutched tight. The little girl craned her neck to peer at Aidah, expectant eyes seeking comfort.
“Soon, pumpkin, very soon.” Aidah stroked her daughter’s curly hair before shifting her focus to the distant lights of towns and citadels twinkling amid a black field.
She wished to see the forms of her husband and son riding hard for the estate. She imagined the beat of hooves over the wind’s mournful croon that set the vane outside spinning, the metallic creak unsettling. In moments they would ride between the alternating lantern posts that led down the road between barren fields and cast radiant pools among the congealed shadows, shadows that took shape, felt as if they lived, waited for something. Her hand shook even as she told herself all would be well, that they would enjoy a celebrated return to Kasandar, to their mansion on Antelen Hill.
“They really aren’t coming, are they?” Nerisse had grown increasingly skeptical since they fled the city ahead of a major battle between the counts, the King’s Blades, and the Consortium’s guilds.
“They’re on their way, I’m certain of it.” Aidah’s words were as much to reassure her daughters as they were for herself. “Come, let’s pray.”
Drawing the girls close, Aidah stared up into the sky and imagined she could see the Ten Heavens. As she did at this time every night, she lifted up her voice to the Dominion, begging each deity for help. A mosaic of drab clouds blotted Antelen from view but did not stop Aidah’s plea for their house’s patron Goddess to turn back time, make it so her husband and son had accompanied them. She appealed to Hazline for good fortune, to see Kesta and Gaston returned safely. On and on she beseeched each God and Goddess in succession, voice fervent. When she finished Aidah drew the circular sign for the Star of the Dominion over her heart.
“Mama, can I go play?” Clara looked up, green eyes bright.
“Of course.”
“Come, Neri, come. Let’s do story time.” Clara tapped her sister’s hand. Nerisse hesitated.
“Go, keep your sister company,” Aidah said.
Nerisse pouted, but she complied, leading her sister across the lamplit room toward the bed. The expression made Aidah smile as it conjured fond memories of Gaston at sixteen and Nerisse at seven. He had been much the same, preferring to pass his time with his interests rather than with his little sister. Now, it was Nerisse in an identical position at a matching age. The similarities felt odd, perhaps preordained.
Giggling, Clara skipped after her sister. The wooden doll was no longer in her hand. On spindly legs it bounced along the floor as if it were a thing alive. Aidah thought to tell Clara to stop melding but decided against the admonition. Better for her to meld here in the privacy of their estate than in some tavern’s common room.
Within moments Nerisse was participating in the fun. Between the two girls they made the doll twirl and dance and hop. Not once did they touch it with their hands.
Seeing them playing with soul magic in such a fashion made Aidah regret her inability to meld or even understand the basic concepts of their power. Kesta had married her because she was strong in soul, but that strength had never developed into anything more. The children, on the other hand, had inherited both her power
and
Kesta’s skills. Kesta often bragged of their advancement as he’d taught them melding but also complained that at times he couldn’t see Clara’s soul. Those occasions had worried him to no end.
The children’s laughter fading into the background, Aidah returned her attention outside to the hard-packed path where it disappeared between foothills. Farther on it would join the Empire Road, which ran north to Melanil or south to Kasandar. She and Kesta had spent many nights at this window, him pointing out the various citadels by their lights, so much like candleflies during the mating season. Months before, some of those lights had been conflagrations, reddening the sky, smoke darkening the air. The drum of those imagined hooves came again.
She missed Kesta greatly, his round belly and smiling face, flowing hair, and too-large ears. Some people called him fat and cruel and ruthless. She remembered a different man, a warm bundle of joy, a deep voice that sang and wove tales from bygone times. The children would be entranced by stories of legendary creatures like the Dracodar, at least until Gaston pretended to be one of the man-like, scaled beasts. Nerisse and Clara would squeal in delight then as their brother chased them and acted as if he wielded soul magic. The memory brought on a smile. Kesta was a good man and any who said differently earned what they received for incurring his wrath.
The nights she’d stayed up with him, to help plot their rise, brought fond memories. She savored those moments when they’d looked forward to Succession Day with great anticipation. Their house would stand above all others, below only the king in authority and influence. Aidah sighed.
Her thoughts drifted to Gaston. From the day of his birth she knew the boy was special, and he’d proven it, despite his slight frame. He was handsome, quick of wit and mind, and destined for greatness. He’d been the top of his class at Cortens’ Temple, and although his father preferred for him to learn the sword, Gaston had taken to affairs of the court, delving into the intricacies of Far’an Senjin.
Thinking of her family, she knew Hazline had blessed her. Surely the God would do so again. He’d seen fit for Kesta to be a major part of Ainslen’s plan to dethrone King Jemare, to see the Rostlin family achieve greater heights. The alliance with Ainslen had brought them Clara as a part of Far’an Senjin, and unlike the pairings by many other counts theirs had been successful.
Far’an Senjin.
She cringed as she considered the Game of Souls, doubt creeping into her mind. If not for it, Kesta and Gaston would be here beside her. She wanted to curse the Game, the conflicts and the alliances at court that it brought, the betrayals and death. At the same time it had given her Clara. Amazing, beautiful Clara.
The Gods give and the Gods take away.
She banished the thought.
The beat of galloping hooves resounded, this time not imagined. A glow danced, its origins hidden by the distant slopes. She knew its caper only too well: riders on their way to the estate. Her heart beat faster. Hope surged even as she tried to temper her emotions against past disappointment. She drew the curtains together, leaving enough room to see from the sides. As she had done on every such occasion for the past month, she prayed to Hazline that this would be Kesta and Gaston. Around a bend came four riders.
“That’s not them,” Nerisse said from beside Aidah.
“Are you certain?” She knew better than to doubt her daughter’s augmented sight, but she still had to ask.
“Absolutely.”
Aidah sighed.
What if they don’t return? What if—.
She shook off that last thought. “Fetch Aran and Lomin in case these men mean trouble. Put out the lamp.”
“It’s already out,” Nerisse said, squinting out the window. “I’m not certain yet but I think one of them is someone we know.”
“Who?” The riders were still little more than silhouettes highlighted by their torch. Aidah felt Clara’s little hands holding tight to her dress.
“Wait … I think it’s … yes, it
is
him!” Nerisse cried. “Derega, Mother, it’s Derega!”
Aidah’s breath caught in her throat. If anyone could bring her the knowledge she sought it would be Derega.
“Let’s go meet him.” Nerisse pulled at Aidah’s arm, voice breathy with excitement. “He must be here on Father’s request, to bring us home.”
Brows furrowed, Aidah squinted at the approaching men. Her stomach knotted. “Lomin and Aran,” she shouted. From below came the thump of boots.
“Why would we need them?”
“Trust me.”
“Mother,” Nerisse said, “this is Derega, the same Derega that has served Father for over forty years, the same Derega who was there to save you from bandits on a trip into the Parmien, the same Derega that you trust with Clara and I, the same Derega you and Father raised as a Blade from he was a babe. Besides, I don’t have any sense of ill will from them.”
Nerisse was right, Aidah thought. Derega was more like family than any other Rostlin servant. He and Lomin were the only Blades Kesta could spare as an escort, or the only ones he trusted. And Nerisse’s odd premonitions
had
saved them on the trip to the estate. Twice, the girl made them stop and hide in a copse or among bushes. Soldiers flying the standards of enemy counts had ridden by soon after. Even Lomin and Aran had listened to her after those encounters. If something were amiss Nerisse would’ve known.
So why can’t I shake this sense of wrongness?
She knew the reason even as she asked. Still, she hoped to be proven wrong.
The riders started up the lonely road. “When has Derega ever disobeyed an order from myself or your father?” Aidah continued to watch them as they slowed to a trot.
“Never?”
“What were your Father’s instructions to our escort before we left Kasandar?” Aidah could see them clearly now. All four were armed with swords and bows. Wrongness became dread worming its way into her belly.
“To see us safely out of the city, and not to reveal our location or intentions to anyone.”
Aidah nodded. “He also told Derega to do as I asked, which he did. He led us from Kasandar, and then I ordered him to wait there, to see what transpired with Antelen Hill, and report back to me.”
