Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) (6 page)

Something clattered down the surface of the pile.

“What was that?” the guard asked from behind him.

“Just a loose bone,” whispered Nahel.

A grey shape burst from the carrion mound—its fur matted with gore and its fanged maw roaring. The beast’s lupine head scraped the ceiling as it reared up on two legs. It advanced on the trespassers, crunching skulls and vertebrae underfoot.

At the sight of Nahel the beast’s pointed ears flattened, and its lips curled back over snaggled teeth. The malakh met the monster’s gaze and saw three angry red slashes traversing its right eye.

“What is it?” the guard cried.

Nahel growled. A warning sounded from the depths of his angelic soul that he contended not with perverted nature, but with profaned holiness.

The beast uttered a series of barks like guttural laughter, and the small globe of light flickered out.

The darkness obscured even Nahel’s sight. Bones clattered on the cavern floor, and rapid scrabbling noises from above told him of something crawling on the ceiling. Somewhere behind him, the soldier screamed.

Chaos erupted. Howls and cries split the chill air. The smell of fresh blood joined the rancid scent of old. Bones crunched between stone and metal.

Nahel jabbed his swords in the sounds’ direction. Their blades met resistance. There was a sound of metal sinking into meat and a horrid stench, and something fell heavily amid the scattered bones.

Besides his own heavy panting, Nahel heard nothing but hushed babble coming from somewhere nearby. He called the light, and nothing hindered its return. The sights it revealed gave him pause.

A hideous form lay sprawled at his feet, leaking syrupy black fluid that was already congealing. Wrinkling his nose, Nahel shook what he could of the acrid substance from his swords and stared at the conundrum on the ground.

The creature’s face—once a ravenous wolfish mask—had become startlingly familiar in death. Noble, but grave and cold, the ashen visage was crisscrossed with wild patterns in black ink. One marking stood out, though—a group of three raw slashes across the right eye.

“I hope Damus doesn’t hold this against me,” Nahel thought aloud. He knelt down and closed the sightless eyes of the dead wolf that was now a dead Gen.

The stream of inane muttering continued. Nahel reached into the rank jumble of bones, grabbed hold of something, and pulled out the disheveled shrine guard, who fell to the cavern floor wide-eyed and mumbling. Blood poured from the back of his head.

Nahel spun a thread of prana from his own life cord—a tiny spark branching from a lightning bolt—and guided it into the guard’s wound by hand. The man’s torn scalp quickly knitted itself back together.

“Go back to town and tell them what you saw here,” said Nahel. “Bring as many guards as you can. Tell the priests to bless them all first.”

As if waking from a nightmare, the guard sprang to his feet.

Nahel willed the shining globe to float back up the tunnel. “Get moving!”

The guard briefly stared at Nahel before rushing after the light.

Xander woke from a bittersweet dream of his childhood and was confused at first to find himself in Medvia’s water shrine. A blazing sunset poured in through his small room’s window, and the cool breeze carried muffled voices. His curiosity piqued, he rose and went out.

The pontifex stood under a stained glass sky on the temple’s second floor terrace, conversing with three strangers who seemed highly out of place. Xander almost cried out when he saw that one of them had a dog’s face. The memory of snapping lupine jaws returned, and Xander’s heart raced. But the pontifex’s lack of fear eased his.

Xander studied the man whose silver hair and inscrutable grace seemed almost as alien as his companion’s canine head. Was he some kind of royalty?
He certainly dresses like a traveling noble
.

A ripple of black silk warned Xander that he’d caught the third stranger’s notice. Spreading his arms wide, the robed man spoke with an orator’s pomp. “Speak of the baal, and he appears! Good evening, Master Sykes. Arcanadeus, Master Steersman and seeker of lost knowledge, at your service. I trust you come refreshed in mind and body.”

Xander advanced to shake the Master’s outstretched hand, which felt soft and clammy by Nesshin standards.
This one has spent years in study behind cool walls, but if the pontifex suffers him I have no cause to shun his company.

The silver-haired man lithely wended his way forward. “Good evening, young sir,” he said. “Have I the honor of meeting the quartermaster’s son?”

Xander grasped the fellow’s offered hand. It was slender and manicured, yet it bore the calluses that came from long acquaintance with the sword, the harp, or both. “I am Xander Sykes. The Nesshin are my tribe, and my father heads our clan.”

The man gave a slight nod. “Damus Greystone, Ambassador-at-Large from Her Majesty Nakvin of Avalon.”

“I am not familiar with Avalon,” Xander said. “Is it in Thysia?”

Damus chuckled softly. “We’ve come from much farther afield than that. Avalon is the last refuge of the Gen.”

“Not all of them,” Damus’ doglike companion said gruffly. Its mouth gaped in a fanged smile. Its pointed ears perked up, but drooped when Xander recoiled.

Damus met Xander’s wide-eyed stare with a wry grin. “Don’t mind Nahel. What he lacks in social graces he makes up for in tractability.”

Xander’s brow knotted. “Nail? Ha’penny or finger?”

“Neither,” said Nahel. “It’s not even spelled the same.”

“Are you two really Gen?” Xander asked.

Damus pressed a hand to his chest. “I am a Gen of the Light Tribe. Birth denied Nahel that honor, and assigned him a malakh’s lowly lot.”

Xander’s breath caught for a moment. “You are a malakh?”

“He is,” said the pontifex. “His courage this afternoon left no doubt.”

Xander looked to the Pontifex. The old priest stood at the north parapet and stared out over the sunset-gilded Water with a sullen look on his face.

“What is wrong?” Xander asked. “What happened while I slept?”

“A grave evil stole into our midst,” the pontifex said. “Today Nahel confronted that evil.”

The malakh’s amber eyes became suddenly distant. “Just part of it—a straggler at a temporary den.”

The blood seemed to freeze in Xander’s veins. “A den of what?”

“Devils.” The pontifex turned. Weariness lined his face. “We found nothing but their scraps.”

“Not
nothing
,” said Nahel.

“In any case,” the pontifex continued, “We tracked the wolves onto the plain, but their trail vanished.”

The old priest’s words kindled Xander’s fear from a creeping chill to a wildfire. “You spoke of devils and wolves,” he said between quickening breaths. “Which are they?”

“Both,” said the pontifex. “They killed many cattle and at least one man, and left none the wiser until morning.”

“They’re not demons.” Nahel exchanged an uneasy look with Damus before continuing. “They’re Gen.”

Xander pointed a shaking finger at Damus. “Like him?”

Damus cleared his throat. The setting sun turned his silver hair blood red. “Humans have many tribes,” he said, “and so it is with the Gen. The Guild’s Purge destroyed the old tribes, but the latter crisis—the Cataclysm—has seen the rise of three new nations.

“My people long ago fled to Avalon. We call ourselves the Light Tribe for keeping the flame of civilization lit. A remnant in the Middle Stratum have emerged since the fall of the Guild.” Damus glanced at Arcanadeus, whose impassive face betrayed none of his thoughts. “Nahel and I crossed paths with them. They’ve regressed even further than humans, living in huts and worshiping trees. We call them the Dawn Tribe.”

“Mistaking a creature for the Creator,” the pontifex mused. “A crude but common error.”

Damus sniffed. “However crude, their goddess seems to grant them real enough gifts, including the power to walk in two skins.”

Two seemingly disparate facts formed a terrible union in Xander’s mind. “The wolves are Dawn Gen,” he thought aloud.

“I don’t think so,” said Nahel. “The Dawn Tribe’s gifts are still holy. Even if they misunderstand it, they use skin changing to serve life. Killing that wolf felt like tearing down a desecrated shrine.”

“These wolves are heretics and profaners of sacred Mysteries,” the pontifex spat.

“No argument here,” said Nahel. “But the real question is where they came from. By my count, their pack’s at least twelve strong. Skin changing is a rare gift, so unless the native Gen population’s a thousand times bigger than we thought, no way are all those wolves from the Dawn Tribe.”

Arcanadeus raised three spidery fingers. “The Light Gen escaped the Cataclysm in Avalon,” he said, lowering one finger. “The Dawn Gen weathered the storm here.” Now only his smallest finger remained upright. “If neither tribe bred our wolves, from whence did they come?”

Damus’ face darkened. “There may be a third option.”

Xander drew closer and found the others doing likewise.

“Your people colonized a part of the Snare cut off from the ether, and thus the fire,” Arcanadeus said. “The Dawn Gen remnant—and their human counterparts—likely owe their lives to former holy sites whose prana or elemental fire affinities were restored during the Cataclysm. Where else in the cosmos could Gen have survived?”

“Nowhere,” said Damus, “which, certain ill rumors have it, is precisely where the most desperate took refuge from the Purges.”

The Steersman’s head shook behind his cowl. “Not just trespassing in the darkness beyond the last stars, but actually dwelling there! They were desperate indeed. Or mad.”

A brooding silence fell. At length, Xander asked the question that had been gnawing at him. “Has my father come?”

The pontifex shook his head. “Not yet. I sent a company of the guard to search the route from Highwater and escort your people to Medvia. In the meantime, you may stay here as our honored—”

“Your pardon,” Arcanadeus interrupted. “May I suggest a better use of the young man’s time than idly awaiting his father?”

“Would you lead him into another ordeal so soon?” the pontifex asked.

”He will be in good company.”

“Indeed,” said Damus. “Master Arcanadeus is renowned for his wisdom and generosity.”

“My father spoke of you,” Xander told the Steersman. “He said you teach men the old ways.”

“Quite so,” Arcanadeus said. “Did he give an opinion of my work?”

“He said the Guild's secrets should stay buried with them.”

The Master’s pale lips curled upward. “And what do you think, young Nesshin?”

“I share the beliefs of my people.”

“Do you?” Arcanadeus asked. “Have you never sought to broaden your views?”

Xander drew himself up. “I am no simpleton. I’ve traveled far and seen much.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Arcanadeus said. “I don’t doubt your curiosity. In fact, I’m counting on it. The Nesshin way, though admirable, does tend to narrow one’s vision.”

“My father is a broad-minded man. Most of my clan shuns objects from before the Cataclysm, but he keeps many.”

Arcanadeus chuckled. “I'm sure he does, for it was an age of wonders. Many marvels have passed into oblivion, but still more await discovery!”

Xander paused in doubt, but Arcanadeus said, “Ask yourself, which time in your father’s life does he speak of with the greatest longing? When were his cares lightest?”

Sensing a trap, Xander thought before he spoke. “Despite his regrets, my father has always called the Steersmen's art folly.”

“I suppose that priests are exempt from his disdain?”

“And why should they not be?” said the pontifex.

Arcanadeus raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I meant no offense; only that Workings and sacred rites are wrought from the same power.”

Xander's brow furrowed. “How can that be?”

“Life and death, good and evil, matter and energy,” Arcanadeus said. “All are expressions of primeval forces. The cosmos fashions them naturally, but there are other ways.”

Mention of other powers caught Xander’s interest. “Such as?”

Arcanadeus gestured from the pontifex to himself as he spoke. “Priestly rites are informed by higher beings. Factors, by contrast, must learn complex thought patterns to fashion Workings.”

“Shaping prana is difficult unaided,” the pontifex said. “And dangerous.”

The Master swept his arm across the Water. “The task is akin to finding a specific drop in that lake. Mastering the art takes years of study. However, I hope you can see that Factors and priests are fellow craftsmen working in the same medium. Their differences are purely stylistic.”

“I suppose so,” Xander said.

“Then you should have no objection to joining us.”

The pontifex gently grasped Xander's arm. “Take care, my son. Our differences are not such paltry things.”

Xander looked at Damus and Nahel. They and the Steersman fascinated him more than any people he’d ever seen.

“Where are you going?” he asked them.

Arcanadeus produced a laminated paper tube secured with a red rubber band. He unfurled it, revealing a map with odd markings in yellow, green, and blue too precise for the work of human hands.

Xander’s eyes followed a dotted line snaking from Vale in the north to the Desert of Penance in the south—the Nesshin trade route.

Arcanadeus placed a thin finger next to a black dot in the desert. “Beneath the Salmeara Valley lies Teran Nazim. It was once a secret place; forbidden, in fact. My research leads me to believe that a trove of Guild artifacts awaits us there.”

Xander thought for a moment. “I would like to see relics of my father’s time, but it’s safer staying here with a pontifex and a malakh.”

“Stay if you like,” said Damus. “Nahel and I must take our leave.”

Xander’s heart sank. “What?”

“I hold a royal commission to explore this sphere. Lost Guild artifacts fall under my purview, and Nahel follows where I lead.” Damus made an idle study of his fingernails. “We’d hoped to engage a Nesshin guide.”

“Join us,” Arcanadeus told Xander. “Perhaps the Brotherhood’s arts can aid the search for your tribe.”