Sharani series Box Set

by Kevin L. Nielsen

Lightning struck the ground around him, charging the air. Samsin drew in the charge, using it to fuel both himself and the storm. While it took great strength of will and energy to start up a storm of this magnitude, once started, the storm itself both replenished and augmented the creator’s internal power. It was the beauty of being an Orinai of that strength and power, not that it did him much good in avoiding this current torture.

  “You know you’ll have to pay for all this.” The voice was a deep rumble, almost the sound of thunder.

  Samsin turned his head, the wind tossing his long, white-blond hair in front of his eyes. Almost as tall as Samsin was himself, but much more solid, Nikanor stood in almost the exact same spot the slave had, though Nikanor’s bare feet were a matter of choice, rather than station. His black hair lay plastered to his square-jawed face, tinges of grey visible through the rain.

  “I can replace a few slaves as easily as the wind tosses leaves across the sky,” Samsin said. He turned back to the storm, raising his arms into the air.

  “I was not discussing their price in gold.”

  Samsin snorted. Typical response from Nikanor. Earth Wards all tended to be pacifists, and believers in the Progression of Honor to get to a higher Iteration. It was ironic, considering the Earth Ward’s next Iteration, the Vulcanist, was the most erratic of all magic users. And the most decidedly vicious. No wonder the Seven Sisters so frequently had to put them down.

  “Spare me your preaching.” Samsin grudgingly admired the Earth Ward’s dogged determination though. Even after everything Samsin had done, Nikanor still tried.

  Nikanor strode up to him with deliberate steps. He took a position next to Samsin, feet placed wide and arms clasped behind his back. Squaring off with the earth, they called it. Samsin almost snorted again.

  “Still, the crops themselves are much harder to replace than the slaves who work them,” Nikanor said in his low rumble. “When the Sisters’ taskmasters come for their quota, they will not be pleased.”

  That gave Samsin pause. Thunder erupted overhead and rain pelted his face.

  “Fine,” he finally snapped.

  Reaching outward, Samsin pulled in the threads of energy still crackling in the air. Energy streamed into him. The storm streamed into him. His blood raced with it, his skin tingled, his hair stood almost erect. With a roar, Samsin reached out with his power, gripped the storm, and dispersed it into a fine mist which exploded outward, covering the plantation, the slave huts clustered at their edge and over fifty square miles in a thick fog. Samsin let his arms drop, unable to keep them up any longer.

  “Was that necessary?” Nikanor asked. The man’s voice was even and held no overt judgment in it, but Samsin knew there was condemnation behind it. It was Nikanor’s way.

  “Yes.”

  “The Sisters’ Council denied your request to return to the Southern Dominion.” It was not a question.

  “What of it?” Samsin strode over the wet rock and slid down the ladder to the ground below. Nikanor followed, but took each rung on his way down. Samsin didn’t look at the mangled body on the ground near them.

  Muted sounds drifted through the fog. The sound of mourning slaves. The sound of Samsin’s continued hell. How much longer did he have to suffer here?

  “The more petulant you act, the longer you will stay here,” Nikanor said as if reading Samsin’s thoughts.

  Nikanor strode purposefully through the fog. Samsin followed slightly behind him, his pace much slower and more careful. The Earth Ward didn’t need his eyes to see. His bare feet could sense the vibrations in the earth and he used that as often as his eyes to traverse distances. Samsin, on the other hand, didn’t have that ability.

  “I will not lie in my missives to the Sisters.”

  Samsin ground his teeth together to keep himself from responding. The man was so storms-cursed honorable. It bothered Samsin that the Ward pairs so often ended up with such dissimilar Progressions. He and Nikanor were of equal rank, despite the decade Nikanor had in age over him, so there was nothing Samsin could do to get him to change his ways, either with political or religious maneuverings. Yet stubborn tenacity was something their Progressions shared. More than once Samsin had considered killing the man—distasteful as that was—but killing Nikanor wouldn’t end him; he’d simply be reincarnated as a babe of equal status somewhere within the Dominions. And the act would definitely give Samsin another incarnation as a Storm Ward. Why did he have to end up here anyway? Storms take this place. Storms take the light-blinded Progressions.

  It took Samsin a moment to realize Nikanor was no longer walking. He almost bumped into the man. Nikanor had resumed the squared earth posture. Samsin unclenched his teeth, a barbed comment forming on his lips, when he stopped and swallowed the words. Was that an actual expression on Nikanor’s face?

  “What?” Samsin asked.

  Nikanor’s face drained of color.

  “The Rahuli live,” Nikanor whispered. “They’re still alive.”

  Samsin blinked. It took him a long moment to recognize the words Nikanor had spoken. “Children’s stories. We left the Arena behind almost a thousand years ago. As a child, I almost believed in slaves that could create monsters and kill one of the Sisters. Whatever really happened, the Rahuli cannot be alive a thousand years later.”

  Nikanor spun on him and the earth rumbled slightly under Samsin’s feet. “They live. We’ve been summoned. I felt it in the earth.”

  Felt the message? Stone Talking wasn’t uncommon, most Earth Wards could do it, but if Nikanor really had felt the message that meant . . .

  “Was the message meant for someone?” Samsin asked, licking his lips. Though he already knew the answer, he still winced when Nikanor said it aloud.

  “It was sent to the Seven Sisters.”

  * * *

  The bath water was still just a touch short of the perfect temperature. Samsin gestured for one of the slaves to bring in more water. He needed the heat. He needed the steam. Baths helped him think and he severely needed some serious contemplation.

  The slaves left, giving him a small bow before closing the wooden door behind them. Samsin pursed his lips and tapped a finger to his chin.

  Samsin sighed and slipped lower in the titled basin. When he’d first arrived at the plantation nearly a year ago, there hadn’t been more than a few ramshackle rooms loosely tied together by some halls. The slaves had hardly given a Great One of his stature the respect he’d deserved. And, worst of all, there hadn’t even been a bath. That was fine for a back-country Earth Ward like Nikanor. Samsin required a higher standard of living. He’d been quick to rectify all three situations.

  The manorhouse in which they now lived was, by the standards of the slave people in the Northern Dominion and the majority of the Ward Partners who tended them here, opulent beyond reasoning. To Samsin it was barely adequate. Samsin added some scented perfumes to the bath water.

  Still, the bath chamber is rather pleasant.

  Ceramic tiles covered the walls in colorful patterns, matching the latest fashions in the Southern Dominion. Reliefs covered the ceiling, depicting the sea and the magnificent storms which graced it. And the bath itself, a massive construction deep enough to cover Samsin up to the neck if he stood upright in the deep end, was more than a little lavish. A walkway surrounded it on every edge so the slaves or bathers could walk around to every side.

  The door to the bathing chamber opened and then closed again. Through the steam, Samsin couldn’t make out who it was, but assumed it was the slaves returning with his heated water.

  “That was fast,” he said, sighing and closing his eyes. “I will see you get rewarded for your efforts.”

  There was no response. Slaves rarely spoke, which was fine with Samsin, but they were required to respond when spoken to. Samsin opened his eyes, temper flaring.

  Nikanor stood at the edge of the pool, arms folded across his massive chest. “This is your third bath in as many days,” he said.

 
; “It amazes me that you can say that with the tone you do. Storm’s breath, how can you sit in that filth for weeks at a time?” Samsin closed his eyes again and leaned back against the edge of the pool.

  “It takes the slaves hours to fill the bath, and then another few to heat it. They have better things to be about.”

  “Better than serving their master? I think not. You should really consider changing the color of the house slaves’ robes. That same drab brown for both them and the plantation slaves. It makes me feel like I’m always dirty, even when I’m not.”

  “And what will a color change?”

  “The perception of cleanliness is almost as good as the reality.”

  Samsin breathed in the sweet, perfumed air. The steam in the air warmed him as much as the water did. Though his particular powers were not directly related to the water, they were connected, and—well, why shouldn’t he like baths?

  “The slaves are still trying to recover from the destruction of your storm. You know, you were only supposed to water the fields, not attempt to destroy them.”

  Samsin heard Nikanor take a few steps closer to him. The door opened and the temperature in the bath rose as slaves poured large cauldrons of boiling water into the far end of the bath. Samsin sighed in contentment. The door closed.

  “I gave you more than enough coin to cover the cost,” Samsin said.

  “Coin has nothing to do with it.”

  “Coin is everything,” Samsin said. “Coin can replace anything you’ve lost. It is the power to build, to conquer, and to claim victory in the great game of life. Everything comes from coin.”

  Nikanor was silent for long enough that Samsin opened his eyes and lifted his head.

  “Can coin buy you a new life?” Nikanor asked, his deep rumble of a voice slow and methodical. “Can it help you reach the next Iteration?”

  Samsin narrowed his eyes. “Don’t preach to me, Nikanor. You should know better by now. I do not believe in your ways.”

  Nikanor gave a slight nod. “They’re just questions.”

  Samsin snorted, settling back into the bath. “Why are you here, Nikanor? You didn’t come this close to a bath just to lecture me about the virtues of your Progression.”

  “It’s been almost a week since we received the message from the Sharani Desert,” Nikanor began.

  Samsin sat back up in his bath, a chill not from the water making him shiver. He felt a dull ache blossom at the base of his neck and down his shoulders.

  “Are you sure it was from them?” Samsin asked.

  “Another man would take insult at the number of times you’ve asked that. Yes, I am absolutely sure.”

  “Then why haven’t you contacted the relays before now? Why haven’t you sent a message to the Sisters? I know you’ve sent a missive within the last week. You didn’t mention it, did you?”

  Nikanor’s silence was all the answer Samsin needed. He sighed and decided the bath was over.

  “I know you’ve been thinking about this, Nikanor. Tell me what you’re planning.” Samsin walked up the steps and grabbed a robe, not bothering to towel off.

  Nikanor stared off into the distance, unmoving.

  “What?” Samsin demanded.

  Nikanor turned to him. “I’m not going to tell the Sisters.”

  Of all the answers Nikanor could have given, that was the one Samsin had least expected.

  “Not yet,” Nikanor said. “I’m sure of what the message said, but—well—it could be some sort of trick. We need to be absolutely sure before we involve the Sisters.”

  “We?”

  Nikanor ignored that. “I want to go there.”

  Samsin nearly choked. “You want to do what?”

  “I want to go there. We need to see if the Sharani penal colony does still exist.”

  “You do understand you’re totally mad, right?” Samsin asked.

  Nikanor gave him a flat look. From the solid man, it was almost a glare.

  “Do you want to be the one who makes the Sisters go up into those mountains without absolute proof there is something there to be found?”

  That stopped Samsin cold. No, he didn’t. The wrath of the Sisters was what kept the Dominions in line.

  “You still can’t seriously want to go all the way up there,” Samsin protested. “I mean, it’s just so far. You know how many slave mines have been lost up there? There’s a reason it’s an unclaimed portion of the continental territory. Why they ever decided to build the Arena there I’ll never know.”

  “So the slaves wouldn’t escape,” Nikanor said. “Or so the stories say. And yes, I really intend to go there. I hoped you would come with me.”

  For perhaps only the second time in Samsin’s life, he was at a complete loss for words. Nikanor thought he’d want to go on some foolish quest to chase down a quasi-legendary Arena built so that the Orinai could watch the slave people kill each other? What in the seven hells had Samsin ever done to warrant that conclusion?

  “You must be mad,” Samsin said. “You can’t really be serious, can you?”

  Nikanor remained silent. He was serious, as serious as Samsin had ever seen him. It wasn’t like Nikanor to do anything rash or foolhardy. What could possibly motivate him to attempt something which so contradicted his very nature?

  “Can you give me some time to think about it?” Samsin asked. He knew no other answer would dissuade Nikanor from his course. The man was typically slow to come to any conclusion, but once he did, it was almost impossible to sway him. Almost.

  “Of course,” Nikanor said, turning from him and opening the door. “We will discuss this again later.”

  Samsin massaged the back of his neck as the door swung shut. He knew he’d only bought himself time. Nikanor was not easily moved, but it was possible to change his mind, if Samsin could present a solid, logical argument. Nikanor was a decent enough fellow, for an Earth Ward. He ran a prosperous plantation, despite the enormous number of slaves he used. He’d come around. Eventually. He had to.

  * * *

  Samsin sat alone in his bedroom, perched on the end of his plush canopy bed. The purple silk sheets lay in a crumpled mess at the foot of the bed, the curtains tossed back on one side. A single oil lantern cast a pale orange glow around the room. A large window set into the main part of one wall showed black, reflecting the night.

  Samsin reached out a long-fingered hand and gently brushed it over the mural painted on the wall near the foot of his bed. It was a crude depiction of the sea, a blue-green splash of color highlighted by a distant red sun and brown splotches of ships.

  The Sisters had sent him here as part of the regular rotation of Storm Wards. If one was lucky, an entire incarnation, and entire life at the same Iteration, may pass without having to serve in one of the frontier plantations. Unfortunately, Samsin had not been one oft favored by luck. At least his tenure here would be a decade at most—not that much time in the grand spectrum of his lives as an Orinai. He longed to return to the sea, where life was simple and storms came naturally. The sea was a fickle mistress, full of rage, and emotions, and power—the perfect lover for a Storm Ward. The sea made decisions simple. Chance her waves and you would either live or die. She mastered you, or you mastered her.

  But this . . .

  Two days had passed since Nikanor had confronted him in the bathing chambers. The Earth Ward hadn’t brought up the subject again, not once, but he had gone about making preparations for a journey. The solid man had set aside rations, gathered supplies for a long journey, even sent out to the next plantation over for some woolen cloth for protection against the cold. No, Nikanor hadn’t approached Samsin since, but his intent was still clear.

  The man was a fool. Nikanor had even appointed a steward among the slaves. A steward. What good was that going to do? Samsin would watch over the plantation. To appoint a steward to tend to the affairs of the plantation was an insult to Samsin’s honor, a jab at Samsin’s power. True, Nikanor owned the plantation and the slav
es. He was their true master. Still, the slight stung. Samsin wasn’t going with him.

  Then why can’t you sleep? a small voice asked in the back of Samsin’s mind.

  Samsin stood up. He ignored the questioning voice, though he couldn’t really deny it, and strode into his sitting room. He poured himself a glass of wine from a bottle and slouched into cushioned purple chair. The chair groaned under his weight. Samsin sniffed. The chair was shoddy work, put together by plantation slaves. Unlike the slaves in the Southern or Central Dominions, these slaves knew nothing of how to reinforce furniture to account for his greater height and girth. Nikanor preferred stone to wooden furniture, so his slaves knew little at all of carpentry.

  Samsin sighed and took a sip of the wine. Flavor exploded across his tongue, a mixture of fruits and berries common to the lush orchards of Samsin’s native town. Usually, the fragrant wine made his stay here bearable and was worth the exorbitant cost of shipping. This time, it did little to lighten his dour mood.

  Why?

  That was the real question. Why did it matter if the Sharani Arena had remnants of the slaves and prisoners still there? Why would the Sisters even care, and why would Nikanor care that they cared? It didn’t matter.

  Samsin downed the rest of his wine and walked over to his writing desk.

  Of all the furniture in the sitting room, it was probably the least used. It has several drawers for parchment and ink, some others for sealing wax and various other sundry and generally useless items. Instead of a chair, a tall stool sat behind the desk. It was heavy, clunky, and not at all comfortable. This, more than any other thing, kept Samsin from using the desk much at all. But the storm was on the horizon.

  He took a seat at the table and lit the candle with a striker sitting next to it. He fished out a sheet of heavy parchment, quill, and a bottle of ink and set them on the desk. Then he began to write. The Sisters had to know. He couldn’t let Nikanor run off on this foolish quest. Samsin’s family had enough influence that even if the information proved fruitless, Samsin would only get an extension on his tenure here. Nikanor, on the other hand, might end up dead or worse. He had no family to speak of and no other influence outside the success of his plantation, which was not inconsiderable.