Soulbreaker (7 page)

Already, Ainslen disliked this bunch. Kulabi’s practiced formality was too flowery by half, the others too silent, eyes seeming to see little when in fact they caught everything. These were dangerous people. It was best to give them a hint of what they faced and save them both the trouble of bloodshed. Better to find a use in a man first before you were forced to kill him.

“So,” Ainslen said, “you Heleganese have remained distant for centuries, paying your tributes, but not involving yourselves much in politics. Ever since the day your spirit assassins tried to kill Jemare, and I stopped them. To what do I owe
this
honor?” He lounged back into the Soul Throne.

Kulabi glanced at the others. Shocked expressions showed on all but Tyoti and Garavi. Tyoti made a complicated set of gestures with his hands, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“We apologize for any slight a misguided attempt by one of the lesser tribes may have caused, but the Overlords resolved that issue when they delivered the heads of the chieftains responsible,” Kulabi said.

“True enough. So enlighten me as to your presence. Is it because Jemare is dead? Or concern for your neighbors?”

“No to both.”

Surprisingly, the words resonated with truth. He thought for sure they’d come to grovel at his feet as a result of his Thelusian campaign. His Farlanders and Blades had routed the first army they faced. When they were done, Helegan would be next.

“We are here with a request,” Kulabi said.

“Go ahead.”

“First, a few questions if you will, Your Highness.”

Ainslen nodded.

“What significance does the Crystal Skies hold for your people?”

The question was a strange one. Not at all what King Cardiff expected. The Crystal Skies had appeared several days ago, but he hadn’t given the occurrence much thought beyond marveling that it happened in his lifetime. He pondered the question a moment before he answered. “Besides their beauty, they signified the Blight and the Thousand Year War, the rise of Cortens Kasandar, and the fall of Hemene the Savage.

Kulabi nodded. “All great catastrophes. Even the Skies’ origins are a cause for concern.”

“And another has occurred again when I have come into to power?” Ainslen made a steeple of his fingers and regarded the man with dead eyes. “If there’s something you’re alluding to, I would tread carefully.”

“That was not my intention, sire. I apologize.” The Voice bowed deeply.

The king smirked. “Cortens’ rise to power is why we rule, why we still exist. There is no catastrophe in that. Hemene deserved to die. He was a monster, partaking of his own people like some western savage. As for their origins, that would only be a concern if you believe the tales that the Crystal Skies are caused by the opening of the Pillars of Dissolution. If you do, then where are the Gods? Or better yet, Hell’s Angels, since the Pillars are said to lead to the Ten Purgatories. No one has returned with proof as to the cause of the Crystal Skies. Except for Etien, no one has been to the Pillars, and his accounts might be called the musings of a madman.”

During his studies of melding and Dracodar secrets he had seen a drawing of the Pillars in one of the partial copies of Etien’s Compendium in the Grand Library. They were depicted as metal and stone structures a hundred feet tall from which light shot into a sky filled with swirling clouds. Supposedly the Dominion had entered the world through them. When they built the Ten Heavens, they changed the worlds beyond the Pillars into the Ten Hells and set Angels to guard them as punishment for betrayal.

The tale first intrigued him because most renditions of those Angels were eerily similar to scaled Dracodar, albeit with wings. The Order claimed the Angels were, in fact, banished Dracodar. Some claimed the stories were supported by the Dracodar practice of sacrificing children born without soul magic by throwing them through the Pillars. He wished he could get his hand on a complete or original version of the book to delve deeper into these tales.

“My belief matters not,” Kulabi said. “What matters is the belief of the Berendali and the other western kingdoms.”

“Perhaps it’s of concern to you, but not to us. Those lands are filled with nothing but savages and blasphemers.”

“Blasphemers preparing for war on your empire.”

“What?” Ainslen sat up straight. Murmurs rose around the room as word spread. He raised his hand. The susurrus drifted into silence.

Kulabi continued, his scar tugging at the corner of his mouth. “For thousands of years the western kingdoms have followed the Dracodarian ritual of sending children through the pillars as part of their worship. Their holy books tell them that one of their descendants will trigger the Crystal Skies and bring about a war to unite the land. Every ten years they war with each other for the right to send through one of the chosen, a person whose soul they cannot see.

“Our merchants and spies report a massing of troops in the west, which was to be expected when the time comes for the ritual. However, unlike before, this was not for a battle amongst themselves; they had united. The only other times they have done so were two instances against your people.”

“But those were in response to us invading their lands,” Ainslen said. “First was Cortens’ obsession with the Pillars and annihilating the Dracodar to the last child, and then Hemene’s madness.”

“At first we thought the reports relayed another one of their attempts at breaking the barrier formed by the Pillars,” Kulabi said, “or one of their many conflicts with our other neighbors, the Caradorii. That was before we discovered that the Caradorii, their life-long enemies, have also sided with them.”

Voices steeped in concern spread among the nobility, the word Caradorii mentioned in hush tones. The majority of those present, particularly the counts, would recognize the name.

The bronze-skinned, light-eyed Caradorii had been the bane of the Kasinian Empire many centuries past. They were the reason the Empire had failed to expand its borders to the west, and why ten old fortresses, the Swords of Humel, spanned the northwest stretches across Thelusia into Helegan, each manned by at least four squads of King’s Blades.

Many of the Swords had grown into cities since, like Danalyn, Morash, or Cozar, from which adventurous merchants, or desperate ones, depending on whom one asked, led caravans to the west in hopes of procuring black ash wood or Calum plants. Returning alive with either was a different story. Caradorii raiders were common, but despite stories of slaughter the reward still drew men. A merchant was guaranteed to be set up for life if he managed to make it back with his goods.

Ainslen stood. “Leave us,” he commanded above the rising voices. He gestured to the crowd. “Sabella, take three of yours and see them out. Make certain I’m not disturbed.”

“Yes, sire.” Sabella struck fist to heart, and signaled for two other Blades to follow her.

After the room was clear, Ainslen turned to the Voices. “Why now? What reason do they have to war with us?”

Kulabi licked his lips, eyes flitting to Tyoti and back again. The smell of fear rose thick from the man, a scent Ainslen might have missed before he’d partook of Jemare’s soul and sat upon the throne. Now, the odor made him flick a thumb across his nose. Tyoti gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“If he’s so important to your decisions, and can understand what I ask, why doesn’t he answer?” Ainslen kept his gaze locked on Tyoti, who returned the stare for a few moments before relenting.

“None of the others have a tongue,” Kulabi said.

Ainslen smirked. “And yet you’re called Voices.” He shook his head in disdain. “Tell me what it is you fear.”

“Your reaction.”

“Despite the stories, I’m not a monster. But if it will appease you … I swear no harm will come to you regardless of what you may say … as long as it’s not a personal insult.”

“The western kingdoms united after an assassination attempt on the Berendali High King. They claimed you and the Order sent the assassins.”

“Foolishness,” Ainslen said dismissively. “I ordered no such thing. This is some pitiful excuse by them to strike against us. “ His anger rose. “They must think us weak because of Succession Day and our battle against the Thelusians.” He didn’t mention the Marish rebels who’d banded together along the Blooded Daggers nor his own troubles with the remnants of Kasandar’s guilds and the uprisings by the dregs. Not to mention the added issue of King’s Blades who’d disappeared. At a guess, only half of those that survived Succession Day had returned.

“We suspected as much,” Kulabi said with a nod, “but with the advent of the Crystal Skies coinciding with this claim, there will be no dissuading them. Which is why we bring a proposal.” The Voice hesitated.

“Go on.”

“Make a treaty with us, the Thelusians, the Marissinians, and the Kheridisians,” Kulabi said quickly. “Along with your Farlanders we can stop the western forces.”

Ainslen threw his head back and laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Consternation spread across the faces of the Heleganese. When he finally sputtered to a stop, Ainslen asked, “Is that the best you could do? Concoct some tale, hoping I would come to terms? I ought to have you all flogged for even thinking I would take this seriously.”

“We apologize for any offense,” Kulabi said, bowing, “but this is not some tale. A tide of death sweeps from the west.”

Ainslen waited for the hint of a lie but received none. However, he knew the skill he’d stolen from Winslow wasn’t infallible. As long as a person firmly believed what they said to be the truth, it would appear as such. Still, he refused to give quarter to any who would stand in his way. Either they recognized him as king or they would feel his wrath. He sat back on the Soul Throne and drew from its power, knowing the Voices would see the fount of soul around him. “Be gone from my sight.”

“Sire, I beg of you,” Kulabi began. Tyoti’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Return to your tribes and tell them this: I already have the Darshanese and the Farish Islanders with me. Marissinia isn’t far behind. Soon, Thelusia will fall. All the dissenters to my rule will pay. So, indeed a tide of death comes.” He made his voice low, venomous. “Do they wish to be washed away or would they rather be given a boat?” He flicked a hand out to his Blades. “See them out. Allow them two day’s rest. If they are seen in the city after that, throw them in the dungeons.”

When they left, a courier approached the throne. A Blade stepped forward to take two letters from the man and pass them to Ainslen. One was written in a hand he hadn’t seen since the delivery of the Dracodar remains he’d given to the counts.

As he read that letter, he smirked. The letter accused him of conspiring with their former king, Lomas, to steal a priceless Kheridisian artifact. Included was a Kheridisian declaration of war for his refusal to hand Jemare to them as promised. Whoever wrote the letter raged about the need for retribution over the Red Swamps.
I wonder which bit they took issue with, his head or the box.
He smiled at that last. As much as they threatened, he knew they would not expose themselves to an open fight, and for that reason he to plan accordingly.

One of the issues with the Treskelin was that it afforded the Kheridisians a place to hide. Despite their willingness to pay tribute and their kingdom’s close proximity, they had never truly given over to the Empire. Not once had their rulers allowed the Order’s wisemen within their borders. The few Kheridisians who converted to the Order had been runaways who sought to escape their people’s uncivilized ways. He didn’t blame them for their choice. How could a people live without roads or the luxuries of castles and baths, or even simple homes? Supposedly they lived among tree roots, trunks, and branches. He could not fathom such a life.

Despite their inferiority the Kheridisians remained mostly unconquered. Stories abounded about the powers within the Treskelin, confirmed by the soul magic that emanated from the great ash trees. Every living thing possessed a soul, but beyond rare beasts and creatures with some form of sentience like the derins, few could meld. What intelligence was there in a piece of wood?

It all brought him to the question of what else lurked within Kheridisia’s confines. King Lomas had provided him with Dracodar remains in a ploy that was meant to look as if Jemare’s Blades had infiltrated their kingdom. An act, that by their agreement, gave the Kheridisians the right to see Jemare delivered to them as retribution for the Red Swamps. They could complain, but in truth, he did not break the conditions of the treaty. He’d sent Jemare’s head in a gilded box.

In retaliation, they had involved themselves in Keedar and Winslow’s escape and were currently hiding the boys. Ainslen ground his jaw. Rather than crumple the letter like he wanted to do, he folded it and placed it in his coat pocket.

The other letter was a report from Lestin and Shaz. The wisemen had succeeded in controlling the uprisings among the dregs. He continued to read, heat rising in his face with each word. Another two Farlanders and a Blade had gone missing in their last foray into the Smear. Felius Carin had returned from his previous search with no answers for the disappearances.
Useless sow.
Scowling, Ainslen stormed from the throne room.

Of the three main things required to be a great king, he had relied on the first two: strength and fear. It frustrated him that the third, respect, was proving so difficult to obtain.
Patience,
he told himself,
the Dominion will show you the way

5

A
Temple of Plans

Q
ueen Terestere stopped at the open doorway, intrigued by the mention of the Blight. The class reminded her of the days she once spent teaching the noble children of Kasandar. Watching them learn and grow had brought light to the darkest days.

A score of initiates occupied the room, heads shaven, robes the customary red and blue of the Order. They ranged in nationality from ebony-skinned, broad-shouldered Thelusians, to slant-eyed Marishmen. One in particular caught her eye. A young boy with bronze skin and light colored eyes. A Caradorii. She pursed her lips, wondering if this one knew what was transpiring with his people in the west.

A Deacon, identified by the bald strip running from his forehead back down to his nape, was their lecturer. The hair on the sides of his head was done in intricate braids with beads on the ends that made a clicking sound whenever he became animated. He stood on a dais, peering over his spectacles. “Why do you think the Blight occurred?” he asked.

Several students raised their hands. The Deacon picked out a hook-nosed Darshanese.

“Because we forsook the Dominion,” the young man answered, smiling.

“And?” the lecturer prompted. He waited a moment before his smile faded. “Anyone else?” Multiple initiates still had their hands raised. This time he chose a Kheridisian girl, brown-skinned, tall even for her race, her nose adorned with several rings.

She stood and bowed to the man. “The people chose to worship the Dracodar instead, as if they were the Gods. They relied on melding for everything, even the smallest task. They built temples and chantries dedicated to the Dracodar kings rather than to the Dominion. Worst of all, they forgot the Word.”

“Thank you, Renia. A good, comprehensive answer.” The Deacon gestured to her and she smiled shyly, offering him a curtsy before she sat. The lecturer continued, “Our punishment was not only the plague that we know today as the Blight, a plague that purged our world of the faithless, but also the Thousand Year War that followed as well as the loss of much of our ability to handle soul. The Gods bless and they curse, they give and they take away, they feed and they starve. Now, we struggle to do things we could once achieve with a mere thought. Such is the cost of heresy.”

The Caradorii raised his hand. The Deacon acknowledged him with a nod.

“If the Gods were upset with the Dracodar for usurping their rightful place, why punish the people?” The Caradorii’s accent was thick, his voice measured.

“Because we knew better. If I watch a man commit murder, and say or do nothing when the watch investigates, then I am complicit in his crime. If a person steals goods, and you buy them, your hand might not have carried out the theft, but you are similarly guilty.”

“Why weren’t the Dracodar punished?”

“They were. Do they still rule today? They were completely eradicated in the Thousand Year War, which, I might add, only became possible because of the Blight.”

A milk-skinned Heleganese lifted her hand tentatively.

“Yes, Meleen Ansabi?”

“Some would say it was Cortens Kasandar who was responsible for their downfall,” she said.

“If one wishes to look only at the act instead of what facilitated it, then certainly.” The Deacon surveyed the class. “But Cortens’ chance was provided by the Dominion. After all, he was an Elder before he became king. How else could the Blight have affected the Dracodar if not by the will of the Gods? Never before had any disease troubled them. The Blight might not have killed them outright as it did the faithless among us, but its effect was worse. They could no longer breed. Even King Ilsindin’s attempts to force himself on the Dominion’s chosen people proved futile. It took centuries upon centuries, but eventually their dwindling numbers made Cortens’ efforts and the Thousand Year War possible.”

“So the Blight was a curse and a blessing,” Meleen said, “as was the war.”

“Precisely.”

“You seem to have gotten lost,” said a voice Terestere recognized.

She turned to face Elder Hamada Netal. He was a Kheridisian with a too smooth face and an easy smile. Ivory piercings adorned his nose and ears. Around his neck was the gold chain of his station from which hung the Star of the Dominion.

“Elder,” she said with a nod, “you haven’t aged a day since our last meeting.”

“Thank you.”

“You mentioned my lack of directions, but what brings you to classes for initiates?”

“As the next in line to be Patriarch, I must become versed in all aspects of the Grand Chantry.”

“Ah.”

“And you, your presence here?” he asked.

“I simply wanted to see how much has changed since I was here last.”

“A grand time, that was,” he said, smiling. “Jemare—” The curve of his lips became a frown. “I apologize, my lady. Sorry for your loss.”

“It’s fine,” she said.

“Are you ready for your meeting with the Patriarch?”

“Not quite, but then who is ever truly ready to meet one of the Empire’s most powerful men?”

“True.” Hamada nodded. “Anyway, I must complete my rounds. Hopefully we see each other again before you leave.” He hurried away.

As she strode through the corridors and up to her chambers, she pondered his words. She
had
lost so much. Not just a kingdom, a husband, and a son, but many people close to her heart. Another person might have given up, succumbed to the weight of such death, but those very same losses that were supposed to cripple her had strengthened her resolve.
I have come this far by letting nothing stand in my way. Act as if that which would give you pain does not exist. Separate it from your mind. The family you have left is all that matters.
She buoyed herself with the thoughts, but when she entered her room’s dimly lit confines, her mood hadn’t grown any better.

Grimacing, Queen Terestere considered what she still had, the purpose behind her life. Her people. That was the most important asset. Had always been. They would survive; she would see to it as she’d promised. In the process she would regain all that was hers and repay her suffering tenfold.

A knock sounded at the door. Queen Terestere frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She fixed her dress, put on her most regal face, made her way across the chambers, and put her eye to the peephole. A Cleric, left side of his head shaven, waited outside.

The queen pulled open the heavy oak door, oiled hinges turning with a whisper. “Yes?”

“A delivery, my lady.” The wiseman kept his head down, eyes averted, hands tucked into the sleeves of blue robes trimmed with red and cinched at the waist with a slim belt.

Terestere regarded the man’s empty hands. The Cleric had nothing beside him or anywhere in the carpeted hall that led to her chambers. “Well, where is it?”

“Downstairs with a runner. He refused to leave it with anyone but you.”

“Thank you. Lead the way.” Unless news traveled faster than she gave it credit for, only two people knew her current location at the Grand Chantry. She wondered which of them it might be.

Curiosity piqued, she followed the wiseman through a series of lamplit halls that smelled of incense, the white stone walls decorated with pictures, the halls with an effigy of one of the Dominion’s ten Gods. One such painting depicted a melder at a Dragon Gate, soul ablaze, and a gigantic creature on the other side, features shrouded as it sought to pass. The wisemen they encountered on the way gave her a slight bow, but none acknowledged the Cleric. After descending several flights of stairs they reached the fourth floor meeting area. The Cleric pointed out the runner, and then excused himself.

The runner was an olive-skinned Kasinian, a whip of a man in thick woolens, a long cloak down to the tops of worn, wet leather boots. He had the haggard eyes and wind-burnt face of a man who had traveled almost non-stop for days on end.

“My queen.” He bowed from the waist. “The merchant sends his regards.”

“Rise,” she said without hesitation. Her heart rate sped up, and she prayed to the Dominion that it was good news. “I was told you had something for me?”

“Yes, a letter.” He retrieved a small oiled leather satchel from the folds of his clothes.

“Tell the merchant not to stray far.” She took the satchel. “His services will be needed.” The runner bowed again and left.

As much as she craved to know the contents of the letter, she made a nonchalant return to her chambers on the Grand Chantry’s tenth floor. She quickly opened the satchel, removed the folded paper, broke the seal, and began to read. Her heart lightened when she learned of close family members that made it out of the chaos Kasandar had become after Succession Day. Others weren’t so blessed by Hazline. The merchant mentioned the state of the city since Ainslen’s victory and the uprising by the people, particularly the commoners. It pained her to know so many in the Smear were dying after she’d worked to help them over the years. The merchant also complained of how much the economy had begun to suffer.

All of it seemed mundane, as it should, for that was the point of her message system. She had never trusted seals as a guarantee of privacy for they could be duplicated. Hiding a message by use of a meld could also be detected. With the thought in mind, she strode to her reading table.

A game board with the script,
Tet Dracogis
, old Dracodarian for Dragon Gates, written in silver paint, occupied a spot near a tray. The board was made up of a hundred alternating black and white squares, divided in ten rows and ten columns. Etched above the columns was a small N for north. From left to right the northern columns were labeled beginning with the number one and ending at ten. The same list adorned the southern side.

Rows to the east and west followed a similar pattern but with the first letters in the names of each God of the Dominion, expect for Hazline who received a Z. Mandrigal was listed first, followed by Antelen, Keneshin, Humel, Hazline, Jarina, Desitrin, Serentar, Rendorta, and Coren.

Representing the soul cycles, a thick line split the board down the middle from east to west, like an additional row right after Hazline. At the northern and southern ends were the castles, occupying central locations of two rows and four columns for a total of eight squares. The Dragon Gates made up two rows and one column in each of the four corners. Only one game piece currently sat on the board: a dragon king, its wings folded at its sides, and tail coiled around it.

She procured another sheet of paper, took a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to decipher the message, matching words to letters and numbers to form combinations. When she was done, the message read:

The sun rises west,

The stones grow to mountains,

The snow has been denied,

And another storm brews east,

It is time.

Terestere pondered the words. All the appropriate pieces were moving, maneuvered precisely as she designed. She smiled. Indeed the time had come. She drafted her response, giving specific instructions, particularly where the counts were concerned. Of the things that swayed men, she found power, coin, and women to be the most useful. Combine them with the right words and one could achieve almost anything.

After she sent for an initiate to deliver her letter to a courier, Terestere balled up the other sheets and tossed them into the fireplace. The smell of burnt paper rose thick in the air. Once the flames had done its work, she left the room and requested an audience with the Patriarch. Upon receiving his acceptance she made her way upstairs.

Her footsteps echoed through the Benediction Chamber. Upon a dais were two massive, gem-encrusted, high-backed, silver seats. Behind them loomed the ten statues of the Dominion, the Gods in various forms of dress. The scent of jasmine rose from candles set on ceramic stands near the statues. Save for a nearby lectern and four small chairs, no other furniture adorned the room. She bowed first to Mandrigal, the sun, and God of Rebirth, and then to his wife, Antelen, the moon, Goddess of Time and Tide. She paid reverence to the others in turn, before she moved on, pausing at Hazline to beg for his fate to shine on her.

Muffled chants drifted through the hall: songs of wisemen carrying from other rooms on this floor of the Grand Chantry. The prayer songs would soon rise, funneled through a series of pipes to join the others throughout the temple, adding to those of the Clerics who manned the ten enormous horns atop the temple. From there the mantras would resonate across Melanil, giving the citadel the name for which it was known: the Chanting City.

She stopped to pour herself a cup of coffee from a table near one of the walls before she made her way to a line of enormous windowpanes. Outside, several wisemen picked their way up snow-covered steps toward one of many doors. Their hoods hid their faces, and they kept their heads down against the swirling white fluff that fell from a sky painted in grey hues.

The last time she’d visited Melanil and the Grand Chantry, she was in the company of Jemare and Joaquin. Gripped by a sense of longing, she sighed. That had been a grand occasion, full of revelry, a ball at their estate, and a feast to celebrate two hundred years of Jemare’s rule.

She smiled with the memory before her face became grim. Joaquin had died soon after, thrown from the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows, murdered by Elysse the Temptress. In a letter, Elysse said it was the promised repayment for a similar act committed by Jemare. Even now, over a century later, she saw Joaquin’s broken body.

As horrendous an image as that had been, it paled in comparison to her husband’s remains. When Ainslen finished, Jemare had been but so much pulp.

She took a sip of her coffee, a strong black brew, bitter, just the way she preferred, its warmth chasing away the chill in her bones. The months since Jemare’s death had been filled with sleepless nights and days spent on horseback that left her bottom sore, legs tired, and hands calloused despite riding gloves. The lack of sleep was not from her grief. Beyond the tug of her attachment to Jemare, she lacked the debilitating sorrow she’d seen in other widows. Hers was a marriage of necessity, of furthering her status. Yet, as cold as she could be, his nefarious acts made her cringe. They still did.