Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2)

by Brian Niemeier

  The foreman returned his focus to the facts. Whoever this Will person was, Cadrys certainly thought him important. A company of hard-faced greycloaks from the Lawbringers’ premier chapter served as his honor guard. Even more telling, Hazeroth trailed the procession, a leather strip binding his eyes.

  The Mithgar chapter—what remained of it—presented themselves to the Will in a more or less straight formation.

  Gid felt the temperature drop. His glasses fogged up, and he rubbed them on his shirt.

  “Are these eight only come to attend me?” asked the Will.

  One of the Mithgar greycloaks answered. “The whole chapter is here, my lord.”

  “Why so few where once there were many?”

  Something was off about the Will’s voice, besides the way the mask muffled it.

  The Lawbringer spokesman—a thin saniyan with scruffy hair, licked his pale lips. “We’ve had some losses recently.”

  “Shaiel called you not to war,” the masked man said. “Why suffered you such loss?”

  “I swear, my lord. Everything was fine until the Steersman came a few days ago.”

  “A Steersman?”

  “Yes,” the greycloak said. “A deformed fellow in black robes looking for a lost Guild vault. Prince Hazeroth sent us to help him; then left to hunt down some thieves who’d stolen a Gen ship.”

  The Will glanced over his shoulder. “Shaiel’s Blade forsook his post.”

  Gid thought he saw Hazeroth flinch.

  The greycloak went on. “He took some of us with him, but they never came back. After that the Steersman took charge. He’s dangerous, my lord—has strange Workings that mold flesh.”

  “Whither went you then?”

  “We found the vault and sent in the souldancers. I don’t know why, but the Steersman insisted they go. Then Tefler—you don’t know him my lord; he’s just a bhakta, but he’s good at making trouble—joined with the cook and a Nesshin boy to kill the Steersman. They almost brought down the ship.

  “We were trying to figure out what to do next when the ground team called and said that Hazeroth was killing everything that moved. We lost contact, so we decided to salvage what we could and retreat.”

  A gesture from the Will brought the Cadrys Lawbringers forward. “Blood alone repays betrayal.”

  “Please, my lord!” the thin greycloak said. “We just want to serve. Give us another chance!”

  “I grant your plea,” said the Will. “Living or dead, the Lord of the Void makes all to serve him.”

  Another motion brought forth the Cadrisian greycloaks’ scimitars. Indigo light bathed the dark blades. Some of the Mithgar priests reached for their own swords, but they were run through to a man before they could draw.

  Gid recoiled at the sight of such flagrant bloodshed. He barely kept himself from running when the dead greycloaks burst into golden flames and shriveled like dry leaves.

  The foreman thought he heard inane laughter over the crowd’s din. He tried to resume his detached study but gave up when he saw that the pitiful mounds of ash still cast the shadows of men.

  “Render to your successors loyal service,” said the Will of Shaiel.

  The shadows flowed into their killers’ blades.

  Gid scanned the crowd. Terror etched every face, but all eyes were on the masked man.

  The line of Lawbringers parted as Shaiel’s Will advanced. He also seemed to search the crowd. In one terrible moment, the mask’s empty eyeholes came to rest on Gid.

  “Shipwright, know you this Steersman?”

  “I know he’s not dead,” said Gid. “He came in on the Kerioth three days ago, ordered a load of parts, and left.”

  “Why met you his demands?”

  Gid coughed to ease his tightening throat. “Hazeroth cleared him to requisition parts and supplies. Last I knew that authorization was still good.”

  “Know you whither he went?”

  “No, but he can’t have gone far considering his ship’s condition.”

  Shaiel’s Will turned to a sullen-looking Night Gen loitering by the boarding ramp. “Ilmin, seek you out this wayward ship. Her master mustn’t escape judgment.”

  Ilmin nodded and marched up the ramp.

  At a signal from a greycloak with deeply tanned skin and cold eyes, the Lawbringers fell in around their charge, who strode past the anxious crowd on his way from the dock.

  Hazeroth turned his blindfolded eyes toward Gid; then followed the procession at a brisk stride. The air felt warmer.

  The foreman didn’t know how long he stared into space before shaking off the vague dread that beset him.

  “Alright,” he barked at his men, “show’s over. With a little luck and some overtime, we can still get in a full day’s work.”

  Astlin looked down from a saddle between two peaks on roots overrunning an ethereal valley. The monstrous vegetation coiled around the foothills and tunneled trough the surrounding mountainsides. Craning her neck showed her the Irminsul’s colossal trunk. Its branches reached upward beyond sight.

  “You could roof a house with one piece of that bark,” she said to her friends.

  “Some worship the Irminsul,” said Sulaiman. “But ‘tis no god, despite its size.”

  “Why play favorites?” Tefler asked. “Let’s kill it, too.”

  “You sound like Hazeroth,” said Cook.

  Astlin felt Xander’s anger flare at the mention of his killer. She projected soothing thoughts to his resident soul, but a nexic ripple distracted her. She studied the Irminsul’s trunk, but the source must have been too small to see.

  “Something’s moving.”

  “Any idea what it is?” Tefler asked.

  “I just know it’s making big nexic waves, and it’s going straight up the tree.”

  Cook squinted as if hoping to spot the distant object. “Is it a ship?”

  “Too small.” As she spoke, the unknown source of nexism vanished among the upper boughs. “Now it’s gone.”

  “There’s never a ship when you need one,” said Tefler.

  Sulaiman had Th’ix bring everyone out of the ether. Back in the Middle Stratum, he spoke to the imp and Zan.

  “Fly to the port. Obtain a ship.” He pointed out a clearing in the valley—the closest visible landing site. “We’ll await you there. Make haste.”

  Th’ix floated into the air on a nexic current, still clutching his Worked head. Zan paused to look at Astlin before propelling himself skyward. Cursing, Th’ix hurried to catch up.

  Zan hovered over the Irminsul docks. Seeing the titanic limb’s terraced crook evoked dark memories.

  The bronze lady’s gone, he thought. No need to fear.

  Th’ix rose up beside him, though how he flew while carrying a metal head was a mystery. The imp stared at the port, his beady eyes darting back and forth.

  “Obtain a ship,” he grumbled. “Make haste.”

  Zan scanned the port. Two ships sat on landing pads nearby—a sleek black nexus-runner and a blocky grey corvette. He considered the merits of each, but Th’ix interrupted with a sharp tug on his arm.

  “There!” said the imp, pointing a claw at the rounded arrowhead shape that loomed over the docks.

  “That’s the Serapis,” said Zan. “It brought the first people here.”

  “It’s exquisite.” Th’ix floated toward the massive ship.

  Zan glided after his comrade. “They can’t make it work.”

  “I can,” said the imp. He doubled his speed, and Zan matched him.

  The Serapis’ bridge rose from her topmost deck like a blister. A clear canopy enclosed the bridge’s forward half.

  Th’ix’s claw clutched Zan’s arm. “To the ether.”

  Warily, Zan went along. The Serapis was still there, only rose-tinted, and Th’ix passed through the bridge canopy like light through a window. Zan followed.

  The same haze that gave everything outside a rosy tint filled the bridge—as did the scent of lightning, which Zan found
comforting. The deck was a long oval with ramps at each side curving up from the front crew stations to the Wheel platform above.

  Zan scratched his head with silver fingers. “There are no people.”

  “You can’t see most living things on the Strata from the ether,” said Th’ix. “Only objects and plants stay in one place long enough.”

  “They’re here, but we can’t see them?”

  “Yes,” said the imp. “Have you ever flown a ship?”

  A dim memory surfaced. Zan recalled the sense of magnification that came from joining himself to a ship. He’d done it often.

  So did the person who— But it was gone. He nodded.

  “Go stand in that circle,” said Th’ix. “I’ll bring us out of the ether.”

  Zan floated to the central platform and set down on the Wheel. In contrast to the rosy tint that colored everything else, the Wheel’s disc had a faint yellow glow as if something far below were shedding golden light. He expected to feel something, but nothing happened.

  The imp’s scaly hand clutched Zan’s arm. “Whatever you do, don’t move.”

  In an instant, the rosy mist vanished to reveal people bustling about the room. The smell of new construction replaced the lightning scent.

  “Who are they?” one man in a blue uniform yelled as he pointed to the Wheel. The hum of activity fell silent.

  “I’ve seen the albino Gen around,” said a grey-uniformed man, “but that lizard thing is new.”

  Th’ix tugged at Zan’s coat. “Get us in the air!”

  “Theft of a Guild vessel constitutes grand larceny and aggravated piracy,” said the metal head. “Penalties include fines based on assessed property value and incarceration for twenty years to life.”

  “That head’s got the only brain between the three of you,” said a white-haired, bespectacled man who emerged from the crowd. He looked familiar, but Zan couldn’t think of his name. Did it start with a g?

  “What’s taking so long?” shouted Th’ix. “Take off!”

  Zan had been trying to do just that. He remembered that ships should communicate somehow, but the Serapis stayed dumb. Unlike the ethereal Wheel, this one didn’t even glow.

  “Let me save you some embarrassment,” said the man with the glasses. “The Wheel hasn’t worked since the crash. Even if you established sympathy, it wouldn’t get you anywhere. The only place you two are going is the brig.”

  Establish sympathy. The words struck a chord with Zan. He suppressed his inherent ward against Workings.

  Hello, said a calm masculine voice.

  A group of men converged on the Wheel. Th’ix drew a curved dagger made from a shard of the Regulator’s armor.

  “Hello,” said Zan.

  Th’ix jabbed his knife toward the encroaching men. “We’re past friendly greetings.”

  The voice spoke again. They cannot hear me. Only you.

  Who are you? Zan asked the man in his head.

  My name is Marshal Malachi. This ship is mine. Do you wish to steer it?

  Yes, thought Zan. Suddenly he understood the Working to join himself with the Wheel as if he’d known it all his life. He started fashioning.

  The bespectacled man snapped his fingers at a shipwright manning a comm station and spoke to Zan.

  “I’m giving you ten seconds to step off that Wheel before I call the Lawbringers. Believe me; the new ones won’t be lenient.”

  Zan loosed the Working and felt himself become the ship. The world pitched as he willed the Serapis aloft. He gripped the rail, keeping his place while men slid and rolled across the deck. Th’ix cackled madly, somehow managing to stay upright. Huge leaves smacked against the hull as the ship lunged upward. A giant branch loomed ahead.

  The white-haired man latched onto the Wheel railing, his gold-rimmed glasses dangling from his ears. “Turn!”

  Zan whipped the massive ether-runner through a total about-face. Men groaned as they thudded against the walls. A panoramic view of the mountain range at the Irminsul’s base filled the forward canopy.

  The hull shook, jarring Zan’s bones. A sensation like bees brushing past his ear drew his attention to the stern. Two ships—one blocky and grey; another shaped like a cluster of three black diamonds—had launched from the dock.

  40

  Watching Sulaiman weave his way between dense rows of trees heightened Astlin’s embarrassment as she crashed through the underbrush.

  The whole forest can hear me.

  Xander’s soul spoke comfort. You have lived in cities your whole life. None can begrudge your lack of experience.

  Astlin paused to let Tefler and Cook pass beside her. It didn’t take telepathy to know that their own thoughts concerned them more than her poor woodsmanship.

  Xander was right. She was far more at home in civilization—or even its ruins—than in the wilderness. But the green fragrance in the air and the solemn hush under the boughs instilled a welcome sense of calm.

  The cloistered woods lulled Astlin into a dreamlike state. She’d lost track of how long she’d followed the winding trail—really just the path of least resistance between impassable stands of trees so huge they might have been the Irminsul’s children. The blind turns and switchbacks confused her sense of direction, except for a dim feeling of spiraling down into the valley.

  A sound like thunder in the peaks of storm clouds pulled Astlin’s eyes upward. The others likewise stopped and peered at the high canopy, but only stray shafts of green-tinted sunlight filtered in from the open sky beyond.

  Tefler’s voice was unusually quiet. “Thunderstorm coming?”

  Sulaiman shook his head.

  Astlin thought of Zan trying to steal a ship from the greycloaks with only Th’ix to help him. If she’d still had a stomach, it would have clenched.

  Worrying does them no good, said Xander. Trust in their abilities.

  “Easier said than done.” Astlin only realized she’d spoken when Tefler glanced at her.

  His brow furrowed. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Just thinking out loud.”

  Quickly looking away, Astlin saw that she, Tefler, and Cook stood within a circular clearing. The giant trees she thought of as Irminsul seedlings towered above the inner ring of groundcover.

  A blob of light flitted around the clearing’s edge, giving Astlin a start. When no one else reacted, she realized that she’d seen the heat of a warm body moving through the bushes. A closer look revealed several more—one of which grew brighter as it approached.

  Something’s out there, Astlin projected into her friends’ minds. She felt Xander’s desire to protect her, his frustration the he couldn’t, and something else—fatigue?

  Sulaiman stalked out of the brush, drawing relived sighs from Tefler and Cook. Astlin stared in surprise. She hadn’t seen him leave.

  Concern showed on Sulaiman’s normally stern face, but anger drove out his fear. “The path is blocked.”

  “Okay,” said Cook. “It’s just a small setback. Let’s retrace our steps and—”

  Astlin saw why Cook had cut himself off in mid-sentence. A wall of trees stood where the path had been. There was no way out of the clearing.

  Sulaiman grimaced. “They’ve snared us like rabbits.”

  Tefler spun about, shooting glances over the impenetrable grove. “Who snared us?”

  “Them.” Astlin pointed to the clearing’s edge, where five heat blotches resolved into four brown wolves loping beside a lone man. Colorful tattoos adorned his coppery skin, and his hair was interwoven with stone beads.

  “Declare yourselves and your intentions,” Sulaiman said.

  “Your authority passed with your god, prefect,” the tattooed man said in a husky, oddly accented voice. “You will bow to ours.”

  “We’re supposed to bow to you and your dogs?” asked Tefler.

  Other heat sources prowled before Astlin’s eyes—dozens more. We’re surrounded, she silently warned her friends.

  As if an
swering a hidden signal, the wolves’ bodies bent and grew until four men in crude hides stood in their place.

  Anger fed Astlin’s fire. “Isnashi!”

  The tattooed man’s hazel eyes held her burning gaze unflinching. “We defile neither our Mother nor ourselves—unlike you, souldancer.”

  The force of the condemnation drove Astlin back a step. “How do you know so much about us?”

  The tattooed man looked to Astlin’s friends, his eyes lingering on each of them as if he could read their hearts.

  “We are charged to watch over Mithgar our Mother. We found you in the desert and followed you through the Tower Graves.” His gaze landed on her once again. “And we have watched you since the world’s rebirth.”

  Astlin suddenly wished that the ground would swallow her. “Who are you?”

  “I am Jarsaal Malisar, Chosen of Faerda; priest of the Dawn Tribe.”

  Cook’s eyes widened. “He’s a Gen.”

  Jarsaal gave a solemn nod. “My name and honors are known. As for my purpose…” He swept his arm around the clearing’s edge, where more tattooed Gen in wolf pelts were emerging from the trees. “I convene this holy circle for judgment.”

  Szodrin observed the captain’s quarters through the ether’s misty veil. Ruthven’s furnishings had given way to banks of medical machinery encircling a slab-like table. The new equipment still appeared hazy, except for a slim blade that gleamed like a white mirror.

  Two life cords found their ends nearby. One had a dark oily sheen. The other was mottled like tarnished silver. The oil slick cord reached its terminus somewhere among the clustered machines. The mottled cord ran straight to the table’s head.

  Szodrin approached the table and reached for the mirrored blade. His hand would have passed through any other object in the room, but he easily gripped the smooth ether metal. He admired the blade’s fine edge and mused over his changed reflection, which was tinted lavender except for his piercing yellow eyes.