Soul Hosts

by Joseph Isaacs

  Chapter 15

  A Double Edge

 

  And what is strength? Is strength the ability to frighten others or to inspire them? Is it to control others or oneself? - Grandmaster Baltoo

  --

  Alaina winced as the Ozac Woven One forced her arm behind her back. His grip was steel wrapped in linen.

  “Are you the Weaver?” Alaina asked the boy whose face was half skeletal.

  “The Weaver is an Immortal.” The dark-skinned girl said. “This boy is one of the Cursed."

  "The Weaver would have your head for calling him the Cursed, Finder," the female Mantu said.

  The Ozac shrugged. "Leave her be, Queranos. Denying hard truths, doesn't change them."

  That they served the Weaver, made sense. They were in the Weaver's Realm, they wore strips of cloth. But what was a Cursed? Why had they lured her here? She tried once more to pull free of the Ozac. "Let me go. I’m the Skydaughter. Gar is my father. He’ll have your head for this."

  "Cease struggling." The Ozac twisted her wrist. Alaina gasped in pain.

  "Gentle, Anaz. We don’t want to hurt her,” the Mantu Woven One said.

  “You weren’t the one who spent the last week stuck in Centuron’s holding cell, Queranos,” the Ozac barked.

  “You’ll follow orders or you can be in the Weaver’s cell next.”

  Alaina couldn’t make sense of what they were talking about. Centuron was head of the Guardians. Had they rescued this Anaz from the Guardian’s prison?

  The dark-skinned girl leaned over Alaina, touching her skin with the tip of a finger that glowed blue. Alaina felt a tingle course through her body. “Greetings Nadra’s Host. My name is Finder."

  Finder’s hands turned yellow and an image of lips whispering a flame danced in her palms. She was a Magic-finder like Goat or Zaburn. She was a child. How could she have learned magic that took decades to master?

  “How did you know about Nadra?”

  “I host the Grandmaster of Magic-finding, Zaburn.” Finder explained. “Jijari foresaw that the Grandmasters would be separated on Three Moons’ Night and she warned Zaburn. He cast a spell binding us to each other, so we could find each other after the prophecy came to pass."

  Alaina’s mind whirred, trying to absorb this information. It fit with what Nadra remembered. The slave boy must host one of the Grandmasters too. He was a prophet, so he must be the one who hosted Jijari.

  "You know my aunt, Laeko," Finder said.

  "How did you know? Saw it in the water like Jijari does?"

  "Her highness, Cala the Weaver, sees the future, not in water, but in weavings.”

  Alaina recalled that Laeko, too, was a Strand Prophetess, who created tapestries that could foretell the future.

  The Heart Stone beat, illuminating Finder’s face. “She sees the junctures. You must save the burnt boy."

  "I don't understand. What burnt boy? Who is that woman floating there? What is that blue-haired boy doing? Why is his face like that?”

  The boy smiled, a smile that was half adorable and half out of Alaina’s worst nightmare.

  “The curse- I mean, His Highness, is making bodies for the dispossessed,” Finder said, as if Alaina should know what a disposed was. “As for the woman, do you not recognize Lila the Immortal, true Queen of Shadows, friend of wraiths, and ally to the Weaver?”

  “Why is she attached to a Heart Stone?” Alaina gestured towards the pulsating stone.

  “Centuron trapped her in it a millennium ago.”

  Queranos glared at Finder. "You say too much. Did the Weaver ask you to tutor the girl?” She turned to face Alaina, and her tongue flicked like a whip. “Listen closely, Skydaughter. Free the Burnt Boy. Remember the four thousand bones. And when the knives fall, you must save Laeko.”

  Finder's hands flashed bright yellow. She glanced at them. "We need to go."

  "Trouble?" Anaz asked, loosening his grasp on Alaina. She considered trying to make a run for it, but she wasn't sure how she could ever get out of this maze without their help. They knew her name and that she needed to save Laeko. Apparently, they had gone to elaborate lengths to convince to her about freeing some burnt boy. That meant they weren't planning on killing her. Yet.

  Finder held up her hands. Flashes of gold and silver danced across her palms. “Guardian Knights."

  They raced down a long hallway, Anaz guiding Alaina, Finder lighting the way with her glowing hands. The boy with the half-skull face ran with them.

  “What…do you…mean…" Alaina panted. "…four thousand- bones. And who is - Burnt Boy?"

  "We will tell you no more," Queranos answered. She and Anaz moved gracefully through the tunnels, though they were only lit by the light glowing from Finder's hands. The tunnel twisted and they entered a large chamber with several doors covered with strips of linen.

  "A riddle? That’s why you lured me here? Did you kill the Raslonian guards just for this? Lured me down here? Why not just talk to me up in the inner ring?”

  Even as she asked Alaina knew the answer. They wanted her to see something: the Shadow Queen perhaps, or the Cursed, or the Heart Stone. But which? And why?

  "Killing Raslonian Bone guards is never a bad thing,” Finder said. “They think this place is haunted and we like to keep it that way. In a way it is, and we are the ghosts.”

  “Once again you say too much. Give her the Sleep,” Queranos said. “Anaz will carry her the remainder of the way."

  Finder raised her hand, the eerie blue light playing across her finger tips and touched Alaina's face. A tingle passed through Alaina. Her eyes fluttered and closed.

  It could have been moments or hours later when a rough tongue licked her, awaking her. Red Paw loomed over her panting. Alaina lay in snow, under the great rock known as the Anvil. The Woven Ones hadn't even left footprints in the snow. Had she fallen from her skywolf and dreamt the whole incident? She stared down at her wrists. They were still red where Anaz had squeezed them.

  She clutched her wolf, letting tears roll down her cheeks. Unbecoming for a Skydaughter, but she didn't care.

  "Red Paw, I have never been so happy to see you."

 

  --

  Wayden, Night, and Rif shared a wagon, pulled by two crotchety draft horses. The boys were quiet and sullen, and their wrists bound so they could cast no magic. Wayden’s nose itched and he had no way to scratch it. Night, in contrast, hummed what Wayden assumed was a jaunty tune, though she was so off-key it was a bit hard to be certain.

  "It must be nice to have blind faith that we'll get out of this," Wayden thought. With so many mounted guards around them, he couldn’t see any way to escape.

  Ahead of them, Sir Jereth Thunderstone and Fire-Whisperer Ko rode thick-bodied Dragonlanders, green-scaled horses. Ko’s horse left large droppings on the path.

  Rif nodded his head in the direction of Sir Thunderstone. "Is that one of the C-C-Companions? Like Sir Longreach?"

  "Aye.” Wayden nodded. “He's my least favorite of them. During the Selection tournament, he insisted on using real weapons. A woman in the crowd got too close to the field of battle and lost an ear to one of Thunderstone's missed blows. When his opponent turned to aid the woman, Thunderstone thrust the blade through his back."

  "And they still made him a Royal C-C-Companion?"

  “No one ever accused the Dragon Knights of being overly soft. It’s cold steel that makes them, not a warm heart."

  The chill of autumn was replaced by the warm humidity of Cook’s Lake, as the caravan descended into Devil’s Valley, zigzagging down switchbacks.

  "Mistress N-N-Night,” Rif asked, “What did you mean we won't all arrive at the prison?"

  "I foresaw that your burnt friend here has to play tug of war with the Skymaster over a fiery cat. And as for you, Rif, I see that you will play your own deadly game of chase with Sir Thunderstone."

  Rif's face grew pale at news of this prophecy.
<
br />   Wayden felt his anger twist like a red hot dagger to the gut. “Rif fights Thunderstone? I fight Gar over a fiery cat? Talk plainly, for the love of the Source."

  "I speak as plainly as water,” she nodded at Cook’s Lake. Wayden didn't think she was making the point she thought she was making. The water ahead of them was a froth of gray foam, erupting into spouts of angry mist. On a distant island in the center of the large lake, rose the Tower of the Loons. Wayden wondered how they were able to boat people out there without getting scalded.

  "Riders heading this way," Thunderstone shouted. His eyes must have been keen, for it took Wayden a moment to notice what the Dragon Knight had. In the distance, tiny dots rode down a switchback road from the Fire Gate dug into the side of the volcano. The dots turned into horses as they drew closer, and the sound of galloping hooves grew ever louder.

  Night smiled. “The future is riding our way."

  “If she says one more enigmatic thing, I swear I’ll throw her in Cook’s Lake myself,” Wayden thought.

  “Being enigmatic is no crime,” Kolram said.

  “No. Only saving people from scagazi is.”

  “The Dracon condemns you as unjustly, as you condemn Night.”

  Soldiers galloped towards them, holding aloft the banner of Helos- a dragon in front of the sun. As the riders drew closer, Wayden identified Swiftrider, a Royal Companion, leading a squadron of mounted Flickers. Swiftrider rode on his famous Streaked Lizard Horse, Green Lightning.

  "Now, this Royal Companion is more to my liking," Wayden whispered excitedly to Rif. "That's Swiftrider, the winner of last year's Race of Fire. You should’ve seen it. Swiftrider won by jumping Green Lightning over a shortcut- a channel of lava.”

  Swiftrider handed Ko a parchment bearing the Dracon's wax seal.

  While Swiftrider spoke in a hushed voice, Ko's was raised in anger. He thrust the parchment back in Swiftrider's hand and turned towards Wayden." Kolram's host. Come hither. Now.”

  A Flicker helped him out of the wagon. He stumbled towards Ko, over barren rocky ground, his legs numb from the long wagon ride.

  “Hail there, young Beast Tongue,” Swiftrider said, “Your skills are being requisitioned by order of his majesty Dracon Niar, son of Terok, Possessor of the Red Blade, Wearer of the Crown of Fire, First Seat upon the Burnt Throne, heir to the Dragonking, and leader of the Temple of the Third Moon. A dragon was sighted in northern Deep Woods. The Dracon ordered us to bring it back. You will use your magic to acquire the dragon."

  Wayden felt a tightness compress his chest. "What? Even Kolram couldn't control Volkanus. And how am I to cast magic with my hands tied?"

  "If you capture this dragon, your freedom and that of your friends will be restored to you." Swiftrider said. "Do you swear upon the Holy Flame not to try to escape if I release your bonds? Will you undertake this mission on behalf of Helos?"

  "I promise I'll try, but Kolram couldn't control Volkanus, so how can I control this dragon?"

  Swiftrider dismounted and untied Wayden’s bonds. “This dragon is smaller than Volkanus. The Dracon believes you will be able to control her."

  "Her? A female?"

  Ko, leaned down from his scaled horse, and smacked Wayden hard on the back of his head. "I warned you not to speak, unless requested. Do you see this seal, boy? It is a direct order from the Dracon. His royal majesty is not in the habit of having his orders questioned by burnt orphans."

  Burnt boy, Toast, burnt orphans- they lived in the Land of Fire, yet they treated him like an anathema, because he wore the mark of fire’s kiss. Wayden felt a different type of fire well up inside of him, but bit his lip.

  Ko’s one good eye bore into Wayden. "You will bring that dragon to us, or you can swim in Cook’s Lake. I'm not sure which would give me greater satisfaction."

  "Troops!” Swiftrider bellowed. “Fall in. Direction, South Fork.”

  Wayden clambered back onto the wagon.

  "N-n-night was right," Rif said. "She said we'd be diverted."

  Swiftrider and his men, to Wayden's delight, joined their cadre of soldiers. A plump, yellow-robed healer rode up to Wayden on back of a tan palomino. He was a sandy-haired man, with a vine tattooed on his face. The vine encircled a plump apple. He was sucking on a licorice stick. He pulled another from his satchel and handed it to Wayden. "I'm Healer Conrick. Pleasure to meet you."

  Wayden thought he might die of shock from meeting someone who was actually pleasant. He placed the sweet in his mouth warily. His tongue tingled with the sweetness and flavor. Conrick handed a candy to Rif as well.

  “Th-th-thank you,” Rif said.

  Conrick smiled and spurred his horse forward.

  Their caravan turned south around the road that looped the lake, and took the southern junction up a steep hill. The road passed houses and farm fields for a while, and then past vast stretches of grassland, until they finally reached Deep Woods by late afternoon.

  The forest was a riot of color. Autumn had turned the green leaves into a quilt of copper, bronze, and gold. The fallen leaves crunched beneath hoof and wagon wheel. The air turned cooler as they rode, and Wayden pulled his hood up.

  The road took them into the thick of the forest. The rhythm of the road lulled Wayden into a dream, or was it a memory of Kolram's drifting across his mind? Kolram was in a large chamber with grooved wooden walls, studying with his teacher, Grandmaster Baltoo. His fellow acolytes Gar and Belza were there as well.

  Gar had yet to lose hair, but scar tissue covered where his eye ought to have been. He’d said to Kolram once, while they were both sharing a bottle, that his mother had taken it for looking at what he wasn’t supposed to. Gar was dressed in the maroon robes of an acolyte, not the shiny black leather of a Sky Raider. He already wore his pearl necklace and a gold armband.

  Wayden wished he could go back in time and warn Baltoo about Gar. ‘Don’t teach him. Don’t make him stronger. He’s going to kill you.’

  Kolram had been the one to find Baltoo’s body, and Kolram’s memory had become Wayden’s own. Seeing his master torn apart was an image that never stopped haunting their nightmares.

  Grandmaster of Beast Tongue, Baltoo the Gentle, petted a sick cat, which had curled up in his lap. His head was shaven, but his beard was long and purple. "Soul-stealing is a dangerous process," Baltoo lectured. "And one we had thought lost, until Arth and Gior's recent rediscovery of Raylar's texts.”

  Baltoo had asked Kolram to find out more of what Arth was up to, but so far Kolram’s spying had achieved nothing more than getting a goblet of brandy tossed in his face.

  “There are five states of matter,” Baltoo lectured in his monotone voice. “Solid, liquid, gas, energy, and spirit. Spirit can be converted to energy or even gas.”

  “He’s already full of gas,” Gar muttered to Kolram and Belza. Neither student laughed.

  If Baltoo heard Gar’s mutter, he said nothing. He continued, “When someone dies, what do you think happens to them?"

  Kolram had always been puzzled by that question. What does happen to someone who dies? Do they just cease to exist?

  "They go to the Great Flame Lands, to be friends with the fire angels and the lava imps," Gar cut in, voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Baltoo continued unperturbed. "No energy disappears. The energy is simply transmuted into a different form. Think of rock changing into magma and then hardening again into rock, or, if you prefer, mist becoming rain and then rain into the sea."

  "If a spirit is changed to energy or a gas, would it still be a spirit?" acolyte Belza asked, her shock of red hair bobbing.

  "And do stones live? These are age old questions." Baltoo said. "We know a gas, energy, or stone cannot grow or breed, but can it be imbued with spirit still? What does it mean to live or to die? Are there true beginnings and ends, or are we simply in a constant state of flux?”

  Baltoo’s cat meowed pitifully. Kolram took a step towards the feline “She’s dying, isn’t s
he? Is there anything we can do?”

  “Nothing physical, but we can remember her. No energy truly disappears. This cat has been a faithful pet. More faithful than some of my acolytes." His eyes seemed to rest on Gar as he said this. "This feline and I share a spirit bond. When she dies part of her will live on inside of me, as I will live on in inside of you, when my time comes.”

  Gar laughed. “It’s a wraithin' cat. When it dies, you should stick it on a spit and cook it. Then it’ll truly be part of you. You're weak. Animals respect strength.”

  “And what is strength, Gar? Is strength the ability to frighten others or to inspire them? Is it to control others or oneself?” Baltoo asked. “Fear is a powerful tool, but a double edged one. You can gain surface control, but never a true and lasting loyalty.”

  Gar jabbed a finger in Baltoo's direction. “As long as they’re afraid of me, that’s all the loyalty I need. Why do I even bother coming here? I’m a better Beast Tongue than you, old man, and you know it. I’ve nothing left to learn from you. You should retire and let me be the Grandmaster.”

  “If you have no more to learn from me, indeed you should leave, yet the most important skill eludes you. Wisdom. Power without wisdom is like fire without a hearth. It is dangerous and deadly. I’d no sooner make an unwise man my heir as Grandmaster, than to assign the task to a forest fire.”

  Wayden opened his eyes and saw a ceiling of dazzling leaves, a forest fire of a more welcome sort. How long had he been asleep? Perhaps moments, perhaps hours- the road was endless sameness, and yet paradoxically endless diversity: every leaf slightly different than the last.

  Wayden stared at the leaves thinking on Kolram’s memory. "Gar was awful, even back in his early days. I'm surprised Baltoo allowed him in his school."

  "Baltoo’s fault was giving people too many second chances,” Kolram responded. “He was convinced he could change Gar, but Gar did not want to be changed."

  Low hanging boughs of cedar and hickory hung over the wagon. Rif had dozed off leaning on Night’s black cloaked shoulder.

  A league down the road, Sir Swiftrider turned and held up a hand to stop the convoy, his face paled to the color of birch. “Bodies.”

  --

  Jazlyn clutched her mother’s necklace, the stone warm against her breast. She felt grateful to Gol for giving the necklace to her, but angry that she hadn’t done it sooner. It was so comforting to have something that belonged to her mother.

  Jazlyn walked briskly towards the southwestern part of the Red Palace, known as the Commons, Org at her side. Mother might be locked away somewhere and Ember Haldur might hold the answers. What would Jazlyn do about it, if she was? Would she be in a position to help her mother?

  "One step at a time, first I must find her," Jazlyn thought to herself.

  "She's likely dead," Asgaroth said.

  "Lock your lips."

  "My lips are a hundred leagues south, in a temple of stone."

  "Would that your poisonous words were trapped as well."

  A drunken Flicker stumbled out of a tavern, almost knocking her over. His breath stank of whisky. "Hello…there… pretty."

  Org stepped between Jazlyn and the drunk. The drunk's head was level to the Ozac's massive chest. He tipped his helm. "Oh, I'm sorry, is this your daughter? I'll be going then."

  The drunk stumbled off. Jazlyn tried not to smell or touch anything as she made her way past the tavern. Finally, they reached the South West Loading area. Barrels, boxes, crates, and sacks were being loaded and unloaded by a dozen sweaty workers.

  Jazlyn recognized Ember Haldur’s pock-marked face from Gol's description, besides he was the only one wearing the blue cape of an Ember. Two Flickers were inspecting people's papers as they came through. Jazlyn approached Haldur and said, "Ember Haldur. A word. Privately."

  "It would be my honor, Your Highness. Shall we retire to the commerce office?"

  "That will suffice."

  Haldur led her up a wide hallway, until they reached a small stone room, which served as the office of public records. Two acolytes were sorting through parchments. She commanded Org to wait for her outside and Haldur told the acolytes to take their midday meal. She sat opposite the Ember, across a small pine table.

  "What an unexpected honor this is."

  "I require assistance for which I’d be most grateful." Jazlyn laid three shiny gold coins upon the table.

  Haldur glanced at her, surprised. "You don't have to do that, Daughter Draconi."

  "I insist."

  His smiled. "Well, who am I to refuse an order?" The coins clinked as he slipped them into his pocket. "What can I help you with, Your Highness?"

  Jazlyn's voice was soft, more from emotion, than fear of being overheard. "My birth mother. What happened to her?"

  Haldur’s face turned white. Shaking, he fumbled in his pocket, attempting to return the coins, which spilled upon the floor, but Jazlyn stayed his hand.

  "You’ll tell me-"

  "I can't."

  "Or I'll report you for taking bribes."

  “You wouldn’t...you insisted I take it."

  “And whose words will they believe? Now—you are going to tell me where my mother is.”

  "Dead." Haldur slammed his hands on the tabletop, overturning an ink pot, which ran over a parchment like a pool of blackened blood. "Dead and buried, all right...ach, look what you made me do. I'm sorry, Your Highness. Your mother was a fine Draconess, a beauty, but even pretty flesh withers in the end. She’s dead and gone. Let her enjoy the rest of the dead. Poking where you don’t belong, it won’t do nobody no good."

  “Dead. You're sure?” Jazlyn heard the words come out of her mouth, but somehow they felt disconnected from her body.

  Haldur didn't meet her eyes. “I’m sure. I had the misfortune to see it happen with my own eyes.”

  Jazlyn wished she hadn't come here, hadn't asked, and hadn’t forced the truth from him.

  No.

  It was better to know. Anything was better than not knowing.

  “How did she die?” Jazlyn felt her mother's necklace, warm against her neck.

  Haldur looked away, trying to busy himself shaking the excess ink off the stained parchment. He was making the mess worse.

  "I asked: how did she die?"

  Haldur slapped the parchment down on the tabletop and reached for Jazlyn's hands, his fingers staining hers black. “Child. Princess. Save yourself some grief. This is something the devil would spare you.”

  Jazlyn felt her chest tighten. “You will tell me.”

  "I won't."

  "Now. Or I'll have my guard come in here and beat it out of you."

  “She boiled to death calling your name.”

  Jazlyn’s inside coiled in on itself. Where her heart had been was now a frozen wasteland.

  Haldur slammed a gauntleted fist against the table. "Wraithin' hell, girl, look what you made me do. Are you happy now?"

  Happy? What was happy? She’d once heard of the word, in another life. Jazlyn bit back a tiny sob. Not now. She would cry later. No one could see the Daughter Draconi cry. Her mother's necklace seemed to whisper to her, "You're all right, Jazlyn. I'm still here with you. Be strong, sweet dragon."

  Haldur’s anger faded from his face, and he looked regretful. He leaned across the table, his voice the softest of whispers. "I'm…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I loved her, you know. We all did. She was a good woman, the Draconess. The real Draconess, not the cow who calls herself the Draconess these days. So beautiful. The paintings don’t capture it right. The Dracon sent her to the Isle of the Loons, but she leapt off the boat into Cook’s Lake calling your name. I...tried to warn you. There's no comfort here. Some truths ought not be told."

  Jazlyn wanted to scream at him. Instead, she rose. “Thank you. I’m glad you told me.” She wanted to fall on the floor and sob, pounding her hands bloody against the stone.

  Jazlyn turned and walked out of the room as if she were in a tranc
e. Was it her feet that were moving? Was it her hand opening the bronze door? She’d hoped her mother was still alive.

  "I am," whispered the necklace. "I'm inside of you."

  “I’m losing my mind,” Jazlyn thought.

  Org stood there, his large, liquid red eyes staring at her with a curious expression.

  Her voice was hollow. “Let’s go, Org.”

  The huge Ozac stopped her and placed a meaty finger under Jazlyn’s chin. He said, “Little Princess needs to cry.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied.

  Org raised an eyebrow. "Little Princess not fine."

  "Oh, Org." She leaned the side of her head on his huge gray chest. She could hear his heart beating, larger than a human heart. She sobbed for what felt like a long time. Finally, Jazlyn sniffled and pulled her head away from Org. She straightened her hair.

  With a sausage-sized finger, Org brushed a tear from her eye.