Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2)

by Brian Niemeier

  “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 Nesshi
n guide.”

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

  Xander turned his back to the Master. The streets below him were emptying as the last light failed. “I have no love for the works of the Guild.”

  “You bear bitterness toward me,” Arcanadeus said. “I offer no excuse for my Brothers’ crimes; only amends.”

  “Count your coin before naming a price,” said Xander.

  “The coin I offer is a chance to prove yourself a man.”

  The words set a hook in Xander’s heart. He studied Arcanadeus, Damus, and Nahel.

  “I accept your terms.”

  Nahel clapped a furry hand on Xander’s shoulder. “Welcome aboard.” The malakh turned to the pontifex. “There’s something I’ve gotta do before we leave. Tonight. Can I count on your help?”

  The pontifex shivered. “Let’s be quick. That rite is bad business for the dark.”

  “Go ahead and set up,” said Nahel. “Tell your priests to expect a hostile witness. I’ll get the wolf.”

  Nahel and the pontifex turned to leave. Xander stopped them. “You captured one?”

  “No,” said Nahel.

  7

  Xander stood on the sandy shore with Damus and Arcanadeus outside a circle of torch-bearing priests. A cool breeze blew over the Water, and a thin crescent moon hung amid a spray of stars.

  “Let the accused come forth for judgment,” the pontifex intoned.

  At these words, Nahel entered the circle bearing a long, cloth-wrapped shape. He looked over the shrine priests. “Are you ready?”

  The pontifex nodded gravely. “We are.”

  Nahel dropped his burden and pulled off the reeking shroud. Xander barely managed to stifle a gasp. Many of the shrine priests failed. The face under the cloth looked much like Damus’, only scarred and dead.

  “Time to ask our friend some questions,” Nahel told the pontifex. “Make sure the circle stays closed.

  That is a corpse, thought Xander. Is he out of his mind?

  The priests wore scandalized expressions. Angry muttering passed between them until the pontifex shouted over the din. “Brothers! This is a sacred tribunal. Let the witness give his testimony.”

  Nahel crouched beside the body, drew a short sturdy dagger, and ran the blade across his own left palm. He clenched his fist, raining scarlet drops on the corpse.

  What could he be doing? Xander thought. The priests’ knotted brows said that they pondered the same question.

  Nahel rose and stood quietly, as if in prayer. A moment later, a hissing sound like wind blowing over reeds made itself heard, and the dead Gen’s chest rose.

  The priests of Medvia gasped.

  “The Mystery’s bound you,” Nahel told the breathing corpse. “Talk so these folks can understand, and don’t lie. Who are you?”

  A long moment passed, and the body on the sand made no sound except the sigh of its ragged breathing.

  Nahel bent closer. He’d opened his mouth to speak when the corpse sat bolt upright and belched blue sulphurous flames in his face.

  Xander started. Others cried out, but Nahel rebuked the body. “Nice try. We’re inside a holy circle, so quit before you embarrass yourself.”

  The corpse’s mouth gaped in a hideous, flame-wreathed yawn. Its lips never moved, and its croaking voice seemed to emanate from a distance. “Here is my witness to this circle of fools. Your faith is a farce. Soon your pleasant dream will pass and leave you in the darkness alone. You are forewarned.”

  Hideous peals of laughter followed, echoing as if from a deep well.

  Nahel folded his furry arms. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “Anything more would be wasted on these apes. The short time left to them would be better spent on other acts performed in a circle!”

  Nahel’s canine face hardened, and he thrust his bloody dagger into the corpse’s mouth. “How about now?”

  The dead Gen writhed and wailed. At length it spoke again despite the knife in its teeth. “I cannot answer. This soul is held in thrall to one greater than you.”

  “It’s not me you should be scared of,” said Nahel, “The one who’s powering this Mystery is another story.”

  “You are mistaken,” the corpse-voice said. “I know my master, but you call on a power which neither knows nor cares.”

  Xander heard a susurrus of agitated whispers sweeping through the crowd.

  “You want to impress me?” Nahel twisted the knife. “Then name names.”

  Lifeless breath rattled in the corpse’s throat. “You think your Mystery binds me? The Void's pull—the one eternal Law—rules all.”

  “Did the Void tell you to kill?”

  The corpse laughed. “Did your devil queen command you to torment captives?”

  Nahel growled, baring his fangs. The clucking laughter died as one of his swords joined the dagger in the corpse’s flame-ringed mouth, breaking several of its teeth.

  “It’s rude insulting a lady,” the malakh said, “especially one who’s not here to defend herself. And thank your all-powerful Void for that.”

  A gravelly whine escaped the corpse’s torn lips.

  Nahel withdrew his sword. “Sorry. You say something?”

  “Release me!” said the corpse. “Release me now, and I will beg my master’s mercy. Shaiel grants no quarter to those who persecute his servants. Release me, or you will call down Hazeroth his Blade, whose thirst no mortal blood can quench.”

  For no reason he could name, Xander shivered.

  Nahel pressed his sword to the base of the corpse’s skull. “Or, my blade could quench your fire.”

  The corpse’s voice rose again, cowering and plaintive. “Do not expel me, child of light. Spare me from my master in the Void!”

  “Just answer my questions,” said Nahel. “You were a Gen skin changer?”

  “Yes,” said the corpse.

  “But you’re not from around here.”

  The corpse’s servile tone became haughty again. “I was born in the blackness beyond the sky, where my people spent millennia nursing our hatred for the men who hunted us and our brethren who abandoned us. We are the bitter reaping that all light-dwellers have sown. We are the Night Tribe.”

  “But you have the Dawn Tribe’s gifts,” said Nahel.

  The corpse’s eyes rolled, fixing a dead stare on Damus. “We took no fiend’s bargain,” it said. “We brought the old faith into the dark, where it smothered at last. But skin changers still appear, though Faerda’s cult is dead. We who were her Chosen now name ourselves Isnashi.

  The Light Gen’s face looked haggard; almost ghostly, in the torchlight. “What does Isnashi mean?” Xander asked.

  Damus swallowed as if sand were scratching his throat. “It’s too offensive for present company. If I understand their dialect. Those who steal from thieves is the closest translation I’m willing to give.”

  “Tell me more about your master,” said Nahel.

  “Shaiel rules the Void,” the Isnashi said. “Shaiel is the Void. His Will is terrible, but all without his favor are lost!”

  Xander felt a sudden chill radiating outward from the dead Isnashi. The torches dimmed, and their bearers fell silent. The pontifex’s shoulders sagged as if a great weight lay upon them.

  Nahel continued his questioning. “Did Shaiel order you to kill that man and those livestock?”

  “It was Hazeroth,” The Isnashi said. “Even in death I dread his face. He commands the Night Tribe and the black ships that brought us back to this world.”

  The ghost of a dream—black halls lit by dim emerald light—broke the surface of Xander’s mind but submerged again before he could grasp its meaning.

  Nahel’s amber eyes reflected the firelight. “What does Hazeroth want?”

  “He lusts for sport—to hunt his prey on swift wings. We are his hounds among the clay tribe.”

  “You came here from beyond space just to
hunt humans?”

  “Are you as foolish as you look?” asked the corpse. “Shaiel comes soon. His Will directs his Blade to cut a path; to cast down all false idols.”

  They are hunters, Xander thought. In thrall to this Shaiel and his servants. His own memory of a harrowing chase through the desert night evoked fears he dared not name.

  Protests filled the circle. “Pontifex,” said one of the priests, “this is a brazen fraud! The dog-thing is no malakh, but a demon in league with the heathen Gen. He moves the corpse, making it prophesy falsely.”

  Xander looked from Nahel, who stood dumbstruck beside the dead Isnashi, to the muttering circle of priests. The air felt heavy with the sort of unease that precipitated violence, but his thoughts were far away; somewhere in the desert.

  Arcanadeus approached the circle. He spoke quietly at first, but at last he shouted over the clamor. “And if it speaks truly—what then?”

  The priests’ outraged voices drowned out Arcanadeus again until the pontifex cried, “Let him speak!”

  The Steersman bowed. “My good men. You speak in defense of your creed, and that is wise. But count the cost of rash judgment. God may speak through unbelievers, and willful ignorance of prophecy is a sin.”

  “We need no guildsman’s lecture on sin,” said one of the priests. “We—not you—are charged to discern the truth of oracles.”

  “I share your love of truth,” Arcanadeus said. “Is it untrue that strange days are upon us? Which of you believed in skin-changing Gen before one was brought here dead and bound? You doubt its witness; perhaps rightly. But heed its warning, and at worst you suffer embarrassment. Ignore its warning, and you may forfeit your lives.”

  A susurrus of muttered agreement filled the gathering.

  “Continue, friend malakh,” the pontifex said.

  Nahel continued. “The Night Tribe serves Shaiel?”

  “He has promised to give us this sphere,” said the corpse. “In return we seek the master’s kin—the hosts of the Souldancer.”

  Nahel’s face became dour. “What does he want with them?”

  The Isnashi’s laughter was cowed and gloating at the same time. “The Night Tribe disdains piety, but not enough to question a god! You should know better, malakh.”