Soulbreaker (11 page)

9

A
Search for Answers

H
ow had Ainslen and the Farlanders crossed such a distance so fast?

The question nagged at Thar as it had since Ainslen took the throne. He glanced over to the corpse of the King’s Blade that left the room reeking of blood and offal. Snow worried at the man’s stomach, her snout coming away wet and crimson. The Blade had no answers to Thar’s questions, and died rambling, spilling random secrets along with his guts. This was the sixth man that escorted Ainslen on his trip to Marissinia. Each torture session ended in the same result: failure. Thar was not deterred. Someone
had
to know the method by which the Farlanders achieved the feat.

He strode over to the bucket he kept in a corner of the basement and washed his hands. After drying them on a rag, he lit two small braziers of cinnamon-scented incense and placed them on each side of the room. He paced over to the map on the wall. Illuminated by the room’s lamplight, it displayed Mareshna’s known territories. Lips pursed, he studied the routes through Marissinia into Kasinia. He had scouts along them all and not one of them reported seeing the Farlander advance army.

How had the Farlanders done it? How did they defeat an impregnable city, cross so much territory so quickly, and take everyone unawares?
Why hadn’t the Marish phalanxes risen up against them? Even if the Farlanders had defeated those armies, it would have taken some time. By the hells, just crossing the Bloody Corridor and the Blooded Daggers were a cause for delay.

Brows furrowed, Thar sifted through his plans. They relied on the Farlanders attacking Kasandar eventually, but the city was not supposed to fall to them. Neither he nor the other Consortium leaders had been prepared for the Farlander speed in travel, and they had underestimated the enemy’s skills and weaponry.

Not that they hadn’t been forewarned of the latter, but seeing the firesticks in action was a far cry from a written report. Besides, a part of him had not wanted to believe in the seemingly absurd claims of sticks that shot metal balls thousands of feet. As a result, the original guild leaders were dead, and the Stonelords and Overlords were at a disadvantage, likely to succumb to the Farlander armies. He blamed himself for not knowing more of their enemy, for not applying one of the same basic concepts he taught: to assume that what seemed impossible was possible.

He traced thick fingers from Ernassa to Kasandar. The journey with such a force should have taken two months, not two or three weeks. Such speed wasn’t possible. Except it was. It had been done.

The Farlander achievement would go down in the annals of history, questioned by academics throughout the Empire. Thar cared for none of that. His interest lay in unraveling the secret behind the feat. A chance at victory relied upon it.

A cold breeze made him glance over to one of the walls. A panel slid aside to reveal the tunnel that led into the Treskelin Forest. Heart entered, bushy grey mane making the derin appear bigger than he was. He padded over to Thar’s side.

Thar ruffled Heart’s mane, the derin growling in delight. He reached among the mass of hair to a spot below the neck. A piece of folded paper, attached by
tern,
came away in his hand.

“Go, eat,” he said. Heart joined Snow.

Thar unfolded the paper. Another name had been added to the list of Blades that accompanied Ainslen on his supposed ambassadorial rounds. Thar’s eyebrows rose. Felius Carin, the Minstrel Blade.

Since Felius had fallen from the king’s favor for his failure to capture Winslow and Keedar, he’d been seen keeping company with Sorinya the Ebon Blade. On a normal day seizing Felius alone and alive might be a challenge. The two of them together? In Kasandar? Near impossible, most would say. Although certain he could achieve it, and tempted to prove it, he calmed himself, knowing that for Felius’ capture to work without suspicion cast in the wrong direction he had to wait until the Minstrel Blade was by himself. Patience would grant him the chance.

Still, he needed answers, sooner than later. He returned his attention to the map. Any future plans began with discovering and disrupting the Farlander ability for speedy travel. Reports had it that days after the succession, their forces had decimated a Thelusian army near the Dreadwood. A trip that normally took weeks. Scowling, Thar mulled over the problem once more.

As they often did, his thoughts steered him to soul magic. Many soul cycle combinations existed beyond his understanding. He would be a fool to think he knew them all. To this day he was still learning, growing. But nothing in all his research and practice, from when he first became a Blade, to when Elysse bested him and taught him much of Etien’s theories and techniques on soul, provided a hint or an answer to this dilemma. By all accounts, no human practitioner of soul, melder or not, of any mixture of types, should have been able to maintain the Farlanders’ speed for such a duration. Even he, being what he was, couldn’t replicate the feat. At best he could run for three days straight under the effect of a melding but would need another full day for recovery.

Annoyed, Thar headed to his study area, certain the answers resided in Etien’s Compendium. Elysse had provided him with one of three complete copies that he knew of. On the verge of picking up the aged tome, a glint under several sheaths of paper caught his eye.

Winslow’s dagger.

In another week it would be three months since the boy left. Thar had allowed himself to be consumed by plans to defeat the Farlanders, Ainslen, and most of all, to free Delisar. It had kept him from thinking of his nephew.

By now, the change should have occurred in the boy. One of the wild brothers would be stalking the clearing, waiting to challenge him.
Has he already lost, and become one of them? No, Winslow displayed the traits, the grasp on soul to master himself.
Still, that niggling doubt tugged at the back of Thar’s mind, a doubt that made him want to go after the boy. But if he interfered, Winslow would not reach his full potential. Ever. Not to mention that Winslow carried enough of the Giorin ways that he would not forgive Thar.

Blowing out a resigned breath, he made up his mind to give Winslow one more week. Not only for himself, but Keedar as well. Keedar had already found it hard to cope with the change in circumstances, and the added burden of worry over Winslow was pushing him to the edge of disobedience. His tireless practice of soul magic and swordplay barely held him in check.

Thar worried for his son as he’d worried for all his other children throughout the long years. So many of them had grown to help the cause, while others had died for it. Too many others. Explaining the need to place Keedar in Delisar’s care had been painful. Keedar hadn’t accepted that the choice was made for his own safety and growth. The situation was proving to be a wound time might not heal.

Not revealing that he was Tharkensen the Lightning Blade didn’t help. That too was another secret kept for the boys’ protection. At some point he would need to have a long talk with Keedar. Perhaps that would be the only way to curtail the mood swings.

Thar picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write on a piece of paper. When he finished with his request, he gave a solemn smile, folded the letter, and placed it in a small pouch along with a piece of leather. He considered using one of his ravens, but the Empire’s archers were shooting down any messenger birds not owned by the king. Instead, Thar called on soul’s first median cycle,
sera
, projecting his request to Snow’s mind.

The derin loped over to him. Thar attached the message to the thin strap around her neck and tapped Snow on the rump.

After she left, Thar returned to his reports again. He had found no references to the melders he defeated in the sewers. That troubled him, but he could only fight what was before him. His thoughts returned to the Farlander speed and weaponry. There had to be a weakness. Everything had a flaw. Discovering it was the challenge. He lived for challenges.

1
0

A
Living Sky

A
inslen stood upon the Golden Spires’ highest balcony, staring at the phenomenon that illuminated the distant western horizon. Enthralled, he barely felt the frigid kiss of air misting his breath, and the wind was a distant howl in the back of his mind. Beside him, High Priest Jarod was muttering another prayer to the Dominion, the golden, ten-pointed, ten-sided star of his Order catching the moon and lamplight.

Colors lived in the night sky, a swirling blanket of azure, pink, and chartreuse on a black carpet. They rose in a swath, from lands and kingdoms Ainslen couldn’t see and did not know, kingdoms he considered inferior, but that made the sight all the more impressive. A star fell, leaving a blue-red trail that melted when it met the blanket of color.

“I never thought I’d live to see the Crystal Skies in my time,” Ainslen said, awed voice a hair above a whisper. “It shames the ancient tomes. This is beyond description; it must be seen, and even then it defies comprehension.”

He thought of the Heleganese Voices. He wasn’t one to dismiss a possible threat out of hand, and while he had his doubts, he’d ordered scouts to the Swords of Humel, both Farlanders and Blades, the former to cut the travel time by at least half, the latter to act as translators where necessary. Word should return from the ancient fortresses in a matter of weeks rather than months. If the worst proved true then he would be ready.

“It is a sign that the Dominion has blessed your rule.” The High Priest certainly believed the words he spewed, for they rang with truth. With his forefinger Jarod drew a circle on his forehead, dotting the middle. The sleeves of his robe fell away to reveal a pale-skinned arm. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, the scent of incense rising from its folds.

“Be that as it may, their approval has not made the transition any easier,” Ainslen said.

“The thorns do not seem sharp until one wears the crown.”

“And by the time you feel the prick it is too late,” Ainslen finished, the quote attributed to Cortens Kasandar.

“A wiser man might think you regret sitting upon the throne.” High Priest Jarod glanced up at Ainslen, cobalt blue eyes stark in his pale face.

“He would be a fool,” Ainslen said. The Soul Throne was his by right. He’d earned it through battle and blood and Far’an Senjin. If not for Jemare it would have been his ages ago, but he’d been forced to tread carefully, to play the Game of Souls as shrewd as any ruler before him.

He shifted his attention from the Crystal Skies to the city sprawled below him, dissected by alleys, roads, and avenues, poverty and wealth, wood, brick, and metal like some sculptor’s recreation. Wealth, function, and the machinations and rivalries of the Ten Hills divided the city, from the Golden Spires’ Vermillion District, to the workshops, foundries, and smithies of the Artisan Quarter, to the taverns, brothels, and guiser playhalls of Walker’s Row, to the River Quarter and the line of docks with ships at harbor on the River Ost, to the Smear’s squalor, and the great manses and small castles of the Ten Hills. Farther north, granaries and mills littered the Ost’s shores.

The Winds of Time drew his eye, the monolithic clock tower dwarfing the other nearby structures. It was one of the few intact remnants from before the Thousand Year War swept the world. He often wondered how the melders of that time had managed to build the edifice. The metal work in the gold and bronze hands and the multitude of gears was an art no living smith could duplicate. The Order of the Dominion claimed that Hazline and Antelen had touched the world back then, influencing the melders during the construction, but Ainslen scoffed at the idea. For every claim of godliness there existed a simpler explanation grounded in reality.

Farther south, well past the Winds and the ensuing districts, the scars left from Succession Day marred Kasandar. Burned out husks and the snow-covered mounds of several great pyres were centered in the Smear, destroyed buildings in the Grey Ward, and the skeletons of unfinished construction on several mansions along the Ten Hills.

The deeper wounds resided in the people themselves. His forces had decimated the enemy, but their bloodlust had spilled over into the innocents among the Smear’s denizens. Despite his preparations for such an outcome, he’d been unable to prevent the majority of the atrocities committed.

Up to this day, petitioners representing the Smear’s populace came before him with tales of rape and murder. He gave the appearance of having the complaints duly investigated, a lesser soldier executed here or there, but he couldn’t possibly give the dregs the so-called justice they craved against the nobility. They deserved no such reparations. They weren’t nobles, nor did they possess a standing high enough to be catered to, but they carried a power of their own. He’d learned of it the hard way.

Years of oppression under past kings, centuries upon centuries of servitude, surrendering their children on the Day of Accolades to become Blades and for the sake of Far’an Senjin, had boiled over. As in the days of Hemene the Savage that began the Empire War and ended the Fabled Era, pockets of resistance grew among the dregs. Not just in the remnants of the guilds, but also the common folk themselves: the shopkeepers, the beggars, the teachers, the fishermen, dockworkers, stonemasons, and so the list continued. He quickly discovered their importance to the city’s prosperity as the economy had slowed to a crawl.

How dare such miscreants challenge me?
The anger he’d felt then bubbled up once more before he squashed it. He’d sent out his militia of Blades, Farlanders, and watchmen. The decision, particularly the use of the foreigners, had only served to incite the dregs even more. The rebels struck fast, and were adept at using the Smear’s warren of alleys and sewers to their advantage, melting into the Undertow. He had lost too many soldiers and watchmen. Worse yet had been the disappearance of several Farlanders and Blades.

High Priest Jarod and the Order had stepped in. Clerics, Deacons, Bishops, Mystics, and Curates had appeared in droves at several clashes, a sea of blue and red robes, healing the wounded, offering food and medicine to those in need. Most of all, their use of soul magic had quelled much of the anger.

Such skill hadn’t come as a complete shock to Ainslen. He’d resumed training under the Order for a short time, a requirement to garner their aid in overthrowing Jemare. What was surprising had been their numbers. They could become a threat or an asset to his future goals. He much preferred the latter.

“Has my offer been delivered?” Ainslen looked down on the white-haired old man, whose bundled clothes hid a body as capable as any. Strenuous exercise was an Order requirement.

“It has,” the High Priest said. Ainslen waited. Jarod had a need for people to hang on his words. “The Father and Mother are intrigued by your proposition, no doubt, but whether you can deliver on it has come into question.”

“The tithe I already presented to them is not convincing enough?” Ainslen had tried and failed to pry into the backgrounds of the Patriarch and the Matriarch. Discovering all there was about a potential foe was essential before taking them on, but it was as if the Order’s leaders did not exist prior to their current roles. “A hundred million gold monarchs could purchase a kingdom.” The expense would dent the treasury, but he had already laid the groundwork to earn at least half of it back, selling Dracodar remains provided by Seligula to Darshan and the Farish Isles.

“Coin is not the most precious commodity there is.”

Ainslen frowned, uneasiness rising in his chest. “They want more soul? I was led to believe the supply collected over the years during the Day of Accolades was still bountiful. Or is it that they now want Dracodar soul as recompense?”

“That too is valuable, but still …”

Baffled, Ainslen wracked his brain for what else could garner additional support from the Order. If a larger purse and access to the souls of rare melders couldn’t gain him the assurances and use of the Order’s wisemen as he saw fit, then what would? “What is it they ask?”

“It has ever been the Order’s position that Jemare’s willingness to let the other kingdoms support their own religions and so-called Gods was a mistake. There is only one pantheon, one true religion, and that is in the worship of the Creator and the Dominion.”

The uneasiness grew until it knotted the king’s gut.

“Because of that position,” Jarod continued, “we funded your expeditions to the Farlands, to the far reaches of Helegan, even into the western kingdoms, under the pretext of our pilgrimages. From them, you gained allies and much knowledge into the working of soul magic and the Dracodar. Allies and knowledge that won you the throne.” The High Priest let his words hang.

Ainslen had known there would be a price for the Order’s help. He’d considered doing away with them, but time and again they proved invaluable. “Go on,” he said, dreading Jarod’s demands even as he said the words.

“In exchange for our services, you will open up more of the Order’s chapterhouses and chantries.” Jarod’s face was an unreadable mask as he spoke. “You will unify the kingdoms in the name of the Dominion.”

“You want to enforce our religion on the entire Kasinian Empire?” Ainslen exclaimed in disbelief. “Even if it’s possible, such a task would take decades, centuries, perhaps.”

High Priest Jarod stared out toward the west and the Crystal Skies. “You misunderstand what they require, and your vision is limited. They want you to bring the Order to
all
the other known parts of Mareshna, to the uncivilized lands in the west, to the Farlanders in the east, perhaps even to the places that exist beyond the Pillars of Dissolution. It might take more than your lifetime, but such is the price.”

Ainslen gaped. Except for Darshan and the Farish Isles, his hold on the Empire’s kingdoms was tenuous. The Kheridisians had made their position clear, and in truth, their loyalty had always been unreliable. The Order itself had a better relationship with them, if taking in Kheridisian strays and runaways to convert them to wisemen could be called a relationship. As for the other lands, Succession Day had provided a chance and an excuse for them to break away, to seek to overthrow what they saw as a weakened Kasinia. He was already treading dangerously close to another Empire War. Blood would flow, generations snuffed out before he had an iron grip on his rule. And the Order wanted more? “Such a war will cost millions … in lives and in coin.”

“There will be an abundance of both. The Order will send its accountants among yours to see all is in place.”

“Let me ask, do they expect me to abolish all other religions?”

“Heavens, no. Some heresy will be tolerated, but the Order must be dominant. Without the profane there is no pious.”

And without the pious there is no profane,
Ainslen almost finished, but that teaching was frowned upon, considered blasphemy by the Order. Something else that Jarod said niggled at him.
‘Perhaps even to the places that exist beyond the Pillars of Dissolution.’
The High Priest could not be suggesting that each set of Pillars led to something other than one of the Ten Hells. He simply could not. Such sacrilege.

On the verge of condemning the entire idea as preposterous, Ainslen considered how his ambitions had been the fuel that drove him to where he stood now, the deaths of his wife and son the embers upon which he cast that fuel. Gaining power had sparked a fire, whetted his appetite for more.
Why stop at the Kasinian Empire if I can rule the world entire?
He pictured it, him standing above all others, like the Dominion, the Creator, a God among men. The image made him tremble with excitement. “I will need to meet with your Patriarch and Matriarch to hear this from their own mouths.”

“Fair enough. The Father and Mother expected as much. However, they will not leave Melanil, much less the Grand Chantry, or expose their deeper involvement until you have brought Marissinia and Thelusia to heel. Whether you take wives from them both, pay a tithe, or put them to the sword, it matters not, as long as Kasinia is once again unified.”

Stroking his chin, Ainslen nodded, plans already tumbling through his head. A whiff of sweaty bodies, sewer stench, and a faint animal odor drifted to him, the mélange adding to the ginger spice burning in the braziers within his apartments. A gong announced a visitor.

Moments later, Sabella, one of his personal Blades, appeared on the other side of the chambers. She got down on one knee, a hand on her sword’s pommel, head bowed. “General Sorinya and Felius Carin have arrived, sire.”

“Show them in.” Ainslen strode into the Royal Apartments, glad to be out of the freezing air. His mind still reeled from Jarod’s words. Crossing lush wool carpets he headed to his favorite tall chair, carved from priceless black ash with gold inlaid across the legs and back. He gestured for the High Priest to sit in the armchair to his right.

The massive ivory door on the far side of the room opened. Sorinya the Ebon Blade stood for a moment, a towering man half as broad across the chest as he was tall, midnight skin and uniform stark against the pristine white walls around him.

A step behind him was Felius Carin, jowls loose, legs and arms stubby, a sow of a man in a pearl-colored uniform. Sabella and Cordelia followed at their heels. A pin displaying a sword stood out on the lapels of their jackets. The other Blades wore Ainslen’s livery, red and gold, the colors he’d taken although he was no longer the Count of House Mandrigal. Both men stank of sweat. The reek of sewage drifted from Felius.

Sorinya’s face was carved from iron. Gone was any jollity or sense of challenge from the big Thelusian. Since learning of the Farlander skirmishes along the Thelusian coast near the Steppes of the World, he had become a cold shell of his former self, no longer broaching the subject of a duel with Ainslen for his freedom. He had also ceased any reference to Ainslen as his father.

Ainslen had expected to feel bitter about that last. He’d raised Sorinya from a boy, saved him from the headsman when the old Drillmaster declared Sorinya too old to be trained in the ways of the Blades despite his potential in soul. He felt nothing, not even regret, at knowing one day the Thelusian would force his hand and die for it. Sorinya was a tool like so many others, and would be used as such.