Veiled Innocence (Book One, The Soul Cycle)

by Jones, Krystle

  He had to get out of here. He had to have freedom.

  Wiping the back of his hand across his brow, he trudged over to the helmet and lifted it from the mud. Embossed on its side was the Accalian Crest. In addition to honor and bravery, it was meant to represent power and advancement in strategical warfare, since Accalia boasted the largest army in the whole southeast region of Eresea.

  He took off his right glove and ran his thumb along the crest, watching the moonlight bounce off the raised metal. Abandoning his country was not something he could take lightly, though it was a thought that had crossed his mind many times. Other countries would not shelter him for fear of bringing down Accalia’s wrath. He would be a rogue, a wanderer. Once he left, he would never be able to return, not unless he wanted to be hanged for treason.

  He shuddered to think what would happen to the Accalians if he left, who would take his place. Not every soldier he’d grown up with was completely honorable. Black Knight wasn’t as glamorous a position as White Knight, which was more for bragging rights than anything else. Being the Black Knight often times meant grueling, never-ending shifts and sometimes unpleasant interrogations of the city’s criminals, if caught. There was far more work to be done than the pay was worth, if the job was done right, and he wasn’t convinced every candidate would hold the wellbeing of Accalia into first consideration. If he wasn’t so concerned with the welfare of the people, he would have said to hell with treason and left a long time ago.

  He would figure it out, and one of these days, he would walk past those great wrought-iron doors and leave this place far behind him.

  But he wouldn’t leave just yet. No, tonight he would work on his plan.

  With a heavy sigh, he gathered up his things and went to stroll in the gardens to clear his mind, leaving the helmet, crest-down, in the mud.

  ***

  AFTER WHAT SEEMED LIKE hours of lying awake, with the scene between Rowan and Orris playing out in her mind over and over, Lian finally fell asleep. She always dreamed, but she was not quite expecting what she saw when her dream-self opened her eyes.

  It was dark and warm, much like any other Asilean midsummer night. A gentle breeze tickled her skin from the void behind her, lifting her curls playfully and beckoning her forward. The air smelled of yeullises, musky and wonderful. They were her favorite – delicate, multi-petaled flowers of varying colors she no longer remembered the names of anymore. The garden at the fortress was once ripe with yeullises of every shade and size, and she had spent many hours there basking in their perfume. But as more and more of the capital’s income was allocated toward the military academy and fattening the courtier overlords’ paychecks, her father had let the garden go to waste.

  She let the breeze pull her forward, one tentative step at a time. The teardrop pulsed at her throat, fading from green to white and back again. It cast barely enough light for her to see that there truly was nothing there at all. It was as if she walked on pure air.

  One, two, three steps.

  The ground materialized beneath her feet. Mud gathered in the slits between her toes. It felt wet and frothy but comforting at the same time because it was a familiar sensation. She dared to glance down and saw her watery reflection staring back at her, only this version of her was different. She was far paler, almost an albino, and a bit older, old with the kind of age that is acquired after having endured many hard times. She felt sorry for her, this shadow of herself, a specter looking so devoid of hope and light.

  Dazed and lightheaded, she walked on, not sure where she was going but with the knowledge she was supposed to be looking for something.

  The teardrop flared. She came to a stop, cupped it in her palm, and stared in confusion at the swirling light-streaked liquid. She had arrived.

  “Lianora…”

  The wind whispered to her, caressing her hair and lulling her into a trance with its sweet promise of love and safety. She trusted this voice, knew it from some time long ago.

  The ground grew brighter. In the distance, an island appeared out of the darkness, pushing back the night with its pure beauty. She closed her eyes against the blinding light, and when she opened them, she was standing on the island, surrounded by yeullises of every color. Their scent hung heavy in the air, permeating the atmosphere with their sharp, sweet aroma.

  Overjoyed, she delicately fingered the velvet petals of a huge red yeullis in full bloom.

  “Take heed, Daughter of Light.”

  She heard the warning but did not flinch. Her fingers stroked the thin petals.

  “Keep it safe.”

  She paused. Keep what safe? She looked around her, but there was no one there.

  “Darkness comes for you now. Stay strong.”

  Her fingers shook, and she pulled too hard, plucking the yeullis. It disintegrated into a pile of glittering pink dust in the palm of her hand. The island vanished, leaving her once more in darkness, and the teardrop resumed its dull pulsing. She watched as the green light shifted to red, then to white and back again before fading away all together.

  She searched the void for the source of the voice but saw nothing. The darkness was so complete that she might as well have been blind. Something rustled to her left, and she whirled around, nearly falling over with her sight gone.

  Long, soft feathers brushed against her ear, and she shrieked. Her voice echoed in the void, like she was in a cavern. It had not done that before.

  “Who – who’s there?” She groped around in the darkness but grasped only chilled air. When had the temperature dropped? It was humid only a few seconds ago.

  The temperature plummeted. Goosebumps formed on her arms and legs, and she hugged herself to stay warm. Her toes and fingertips began numbing. It was as if she had been plucked from summer’s embrace and dropped into winter’s claws in the blink of an eye.

  Thoughts jumbled together in her head. It’s freezing! Why is it so cold?

  The harder she tried to sort her thoughts out, the harder it was to think at all. Another rustling sound, like the swishing of robes, came from directly behind her.

  “Hello?” she whispered. Her heart hammered in her chest as her fear spiked. Something was not right, and it settled in the pit of her stomach as a tight, heavy knot. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to run, but she was so cold she could barely think, let alone force her muscles to work.

  The void was quiet. The only sounds were the thundering of her heart and her quick, shaky breaths. She took a step backwards –

  And was abruptly seized by sharp talons.

  She screamed and bolted upright in her bed. Sweat poured off of her as she gasped for air.

  What was that? Her hand flew to her neck. The teardrop was cold as ice, its surface foggy from the humidity in the room. She rubbed the fog away until tiny flecks of light flickered in the liquid.

  With her body still trembling, she sighed and relaxed into her pillows. Calm down. It was a dream, only a dream.

  A dream that had felt very real. And that voice. Who was that? What had it said? It was trying to warn her, but about what?

  She jumped at a sharp knock on the door, and a few seconds later four knights flooded the room. Alastor and Ana-Elise were the last to enter. Ana looked at her sharply. “We heard screams,” she said, eyeing the guards as they combed the room.

  “Everything’s clear,” said a tall man Lian had never seen before, one of Alastor’s personal bodyguards, she presumed.

  They assumed their positions around Alastor and Ana-Elise, forming a half-arc.

  Lian cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” she managed, suddenly aware of the fact she had on nothing save a nightgown. She pulled the sheets up to her shoulders and blushed.

  Alastor raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You sounded like Gharesh himself was coming for you.” Gharesh was a terrible spirit rumored to snatch young girls up in the middle of the night, whisking them off to be his bride. “I was seeing Ana-Elise off to her chambers when you screamed.”
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  Her mind was still hazy, but she remembered the last thing she said to Alastor at dinner. She dropped her eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

  He blinked. “For what?” Then something flashed across his eyes. His lips pressed into a thin line, and she knew he remembered her crass remark.

  “Well,” Ana-Elise cut in, oblivious to the growing tension, “it seems it was nothing but a nightmare. We’d best be going so you can get back to sleep.” She grabbed Alastor’s arm and started pulling him toward the door when her eyes rested on the teardrop. Shadows settled over her face. “Where did you get that?”

  The ice in Ana’s voice cut through Lian’s hazy mind like a knife. “Er, I, uh, found it.”

  Ana-Elise narrowed her eyes and stared at her for several long seconds. Lian bit her lip and stared at the teardrop. Was Ana-Elise mad at her? Did she think Lian had stolen it or that their father had shown her favor over her for once?

  “Darkness comes for you now.”

  Lian reluctantly tore her eyes from the teardrop and lifted them to meet Ana’s gaze. Her skin crawled; Ana’s eyes were solid black.

  She blinked. The darkness lifted; Ana’s eyes had returned to normal, and she suddenly looked very tired. “Good night, Sister,” she said softly. “Try to dream a little less loudly.” Then she glided out of the room in one of her token graceful moves.

  Alastor gave her an awkward smile and left behind her, trailed by his guards.

  “Why, yes. I’m fine. Thank you for asking,” Lian muttered.

  As the door latched shut, she collapsed onto the pillows. She sighed and closed her eyes but saw only the murky darkness she had walked through earlier, the same darkness she had seen on Ana’s face.

  She fingered the teardrop, wondering what it all meant. You’re just tired, she told herself, and emotionally drained. You’ve probably imagined it all.

  Though her thoughts felt less troubled, she wasn’t ready to re-enter that dark abyss. She pried her eyes open, willing herself to stay awake. Eventually, she grew too exhausted and soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER 4Predator

  VISHKA DREW HER CLOAK tighter, stirring up mist as she glided down the deserted street.

  Having now spent a week in Accalia searching for her blood bounty, she had grown familiar with the country’s somewhat bizarre weather patterns. Though the sun rarely showed its face in Accalia, the moon always seemed to find a way through the thick cloud cover. Spots of starlight littered the sky. Tall buildings of black glass rose all around her, and the pale light of the moon reflected off their broken windows. Wrought-iron gates covered in rust and moss loomed over her while monstrous carvings bared their fangs at her from rotting pedestals. She smiled. Accalia was beautiful in its decay, wearing its shadows like a cloak.

  Her thoughts shifted, and her mood darkened.

  After a century, the feelings remained, lurking beneath the surface of her collected exterior. The ache was familiar, a heady mixture of hatred and agony festering deep within her heart that continued eating away at her soul each day she continued the Calling. At Death’s feet, the bargain had seemed easy to accept, especially since He wore the guise of Draxonus.

  She bit back a bitter laugh. Dying would have been so much more favorable. At least then she would have been free.

  In time, when the Calling was fulfilled, His blood would cleanse her of the lives she had claimed in His name. Then she would truly be free of her sins.

  For as long as she lived, however long that may be, she would never forget that night on the ship. She remembered taking his hand right before fire scorched her blood, burning out her soul until there was nothing there. Then all the colors of the destruction around her swirled, and she tumbled into darkness. When she awoke, she was greeted by the stars that had witnessed her damnation. They were no longer beautiful; they were vile, laughing at her folly, and she cursed them, only her voice was no longer her own. It was darker, hypnotic even, and when she spoke she could see wisps of smoke-like tendrils curl around the sound.

  She had always been able to “hear colors,” an ability that proved to be half gift, half curse. Her hearing was more attuned, the colors more vivid and sharper than they had been when she was a mortal. The landscape exploded in color around her reborn self, disorienting at first but not so much that she couldn’t quickly learn to control it. She had been left on the riverbank, her arms crossed on her chest as if she were on her funeral pyre. In her hands, she clasped the hilt of an exotic black saber encrusted with a single blood-red gem. Her body hummed with a strange power; it writhed and twisted within her, emanating from the saber, already searching out its prey.

  Her victim. Her purpose.

  Nothing existed outside of it. Nothing, no one, mattered.

  The pain was gone, replaced by an apathetic serenity she had never known in mortal life. She felt stronger. Invincible.

  She stretched a hand toward the sky, expecting to see charred flesh only to find the same odd shimmer to her olive skin that Draxonus had possessed. She feared her appearance would give her away during her Calling, but she later learned mortals could not see the shimmer. Only those closest to the brink between life and death, such as newborn babes or the dying, could see through the glamour.

  Shaking her head to clear the memory, Vishka stepped onto the next street. A door creaked open to her left, and laughter bubbled out from a tavern with a rush of warm air that smelled of sweat and sex. A couple stumbled past her, tripping over themselves as they flirted and joked. A few more men left the tavern only to be flagged down by a cheaply dressed woman at the street corner. All except one, who fell into step a few feet behind Vishka as she passed.

  Vishka darted past the woman and down the next alley. A heap of garbage rattled and then hissed at her as a cat scurried across her path and disappeared into the night.

  Heavy footsteps plodded behind her, but she kept walking.

  There was a dim glow up ahead. It was an old man, his skin so thin and sallow it looked like it had been painted on. He squatted on the ground beside a pile of burning rags, half hidden by a tower of crates. Something roasted on a stick, and Vishka thought she would gag from the putrid smell wafting from it. He heard her approach and lifted eyes partially obscured by a filmy whiteness. “Please. Spare some coins for the poor, my Lord?”

  She reached into the folds of her robe and pitched several krillions on the ground before him. He groped for the coins, and his face lit up in astonishment as his fingers traced the embossed profile of Dreaka, Accalia’s patron goddess. “Th – thank you, my Lord!”

  Vishka slowly lifted her chin as she passed. Though he could not see her, she could tell by the pale blue light – the color of death – veiling him that he would sense her. The dying always recognized an agent of Death.

  She waited for the revelation. At first, several emotions crossed his face before it settled into a look of utter terror. His mouth agape, he stared at her speechless as she floated past him and disappeared into the shadows at the end of the alley.

  The footsteps following her stopped.

  Her tall black boots kicked up dust as she walked, quiet as the dead.

  Behind her, the old man pleaded. There was a loud crack, followed by a thump, and the alley was silent, save for the hurried footsteps heading in the opposite direction.

  She knew what would happen to that old man the moment she laid eyes on him. Could she predict the future? Far from it. It was a simple fact of life. He was much easier prey, and besides, he had been close to death anyway. She had only sped up the inevitable.

  Oh, well. At least he had experienced happiness for a short time in his wretched life.

  She flattened her body against a wall as a patrol rounded the corner and marched toward her. Her body tingled with the familiar sensation of becoming nothing more than air, and within a split second, she merged with the shadows themselves. The soldiers were so close that she could see the pores in their skin, but she was invisi
ble to their eyes, as she was to most anything, save for spirits and other creatures tied to the Realm of Death.

  She had only seen spirits a handful of times, but she always sensed their presence. At first it had frightened her, but now she barely paid them any attention. They gathered in places of death, floating around as balls of blue light, some brighter than others depending on what type of a person they had been.

  Vishka had always been able to sense a person’s spirit, whether they were noble, corrupt, timid, or passionate. Her immortality had also heightened that gift, granting her the power to actually see a person’s soul, or aura, as strands of light emanating from a person’s body. Each aura had a different color. Immortals also had colored auras, but theirs differed in that they were ringed by silver light. Animals, plants, and insects too had auras, usually green, brown, or yellow, the colors of nature. His aura – her master – was the only one she had ever seen glow like liquid moonlight, but she had seen all manner of the rainbow of auras since being in the mortal realm again, which was exciting and new at first but quickly grew dull.

  Once the patrol passed, she peeled away from the wall, becoming solid again as she did, and took off in the opposite direction. It looked like the street had not been used in years. She passed a temple where a statue to Erebus, the God of Death, lay knocked off its pedestal, His head lying a few feet from the rest of His body.

  She pried her eyes from the sight of His decapitated head and frowned. If only it were that easy to kill a god.

  She quickened her pace and turned at an abandoned stable yard, at last coming to a decrepit wooden fence. Crouching, she felt along the ground.

  Her fingers trailed only mud, and she growled, beginning to think her lead had misinformed her. False leads and dead ends were part of the job, especially when hunting something as precious and rare as an Immortal, but all the same it annoyed her to no end to think she had wasted more time.

  Her fingers patted furtively. It must be here somewhere. She had never been a patient woman. One would think a century’s worth of pursuing the same task would be enough to teach one a virtue, but alas, she found her fingers racing faster and faster through the slush. At last, they brushed raised metal.