Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  “I approach without harm,” he called, once he was certain the beasts would not attack. A wave of relief spread across the field, and the dogs’ jet-black color seemed to wane, drained through the tips of their fur. Still the urus darted their eyes between the men, the weight of their gaze keeping check on any feelings of safety.

  He pressed on, until he reached them.

  Arak’Doren had tried to volunteer for this step in their plan, but the rest of the guardians would not allow it. The Ranasi had no apprentice guardian, and if this did not work, the man who tried it would be killed.

  Arak’Jur walked through the pack. To his left and right the once-black dogs looked up at him with heads tilted. If they expected fear he made certain they didn’t find it. When he emerged on the other side, toward the edge of the field, the dogs seemed to lose interest in him, turning their attention toward the rest of the men.

  “Come,” he said, and the rest of the guardians repeated what he had done, making their way through the tall grass, avoiding the corpses and any stray thoughts about how they came to be there.

  All seven passed through without incident.

  When the last guardian emerged on the far side of the pack, the dogs turned away and padded toward the far end of the field. Other men might have celebrated a victory to have escaped the beasts. But the urus treaded toward their tribes’ lands. Not for the guardians the simple pleasures of survival. Arak’Jur gave the sign, and the rest of their number ran to the south and west. Only he remained behind, watching the urus make their way toward the wood at the edge of the grass.

  He waited until the beasts had nearly disappeared from sight, and then he let fear take him.

  He thought of the urus’ slavering jaws, the unearthly way their fur reflected the emotions of men. He thought of the Olessi, how with their guardians slain they would stand defenseless against the wild. He thought of his first hunt as a boy, and the terror he’d felt when he faced a predator for the first time. He thought of Ka’Vos and his mysterious silence, the weight that settled over their people under the threat of the spirits’ curse. He thought of Llanara. He thought of his slain wife, Rhealla, and their beautiful boy, Kar’Elek, the horrible sight of their bodies broken and twisted by the bite of the valak’ar.

  As one, the urus halted their slow procession and turned to face him. Under their gaze his fear deepened, and he allowed it to bloom unchecked. The beasts’ eyes grew wide, and their fur, which had faded to a soft gray, almost white, began to darken into a deep shade of red. They broke into a trot toward him, then a loping gait. Faster. Tongues lolled from their mouths as they swept across the field, betokening the hunger his fear had promised to sate.

  He turned and ran. The lakiri’in gave him speed unknown to other beasts, and when it faded, mareh’et granted another surge of power. Still the urus came, relentless.

  They were almost on him when he dropped to his knees and cleared his mind, calling on the spirit of anahret for a visage of perfect death. His fear vanished, and the urus came to a stuttering halt behind him. Once more their unnatural eyes searched, as if asking where the fear had gone. They paced about him where he lay, and the crimson color in their fur began to fade.

  When they flushed red again, his heart surged, threatening to spark his emotion anew. He kept still. This was the plan. Once more the beasts fixed their gaze on the source of the fear, and they ran. In the distance, the Vhurasi guardian gave them fresh scent. They would follow.

  So it went, onward to the south, to the west. Away from the tribes’ lands. One after another, allowing fear to take hold, luring them forward, then shedding it at the last moment, in time for the next man to continue the chase. As they ran he came to understand the meaning of Ka’Vos’s vision, and the others, who had seen guardians beyond counting fight to drive the beasts from their land: The urus would not be slain, but through the collective efforts of the guardians of every tribe, they could be diverted.

  They ran for days, emboldened by the spirits, resting when they could and letting the beasts wander when they must. It was difficult work, far beyond the exertions required by most great beasts. Yet they endured. Ilek’Inari in particular seemed well suited to the task, with a deeper understanding of emotion than those who had not had a shaman’s training. Arak’Jur swelled with pride to see it: a reminder that not all of a guardian’s work was fighting and woodcraft. In the end, since they had not formulated a plan that led to slaying the beast, whatever gifts the urus spirit could bestow would remain hidden, the province of the spirits alone. It was enough to see the beast far away from their tribes’ lands. It was enough to ensure their people were safe.

  Many days later, exhausted and bone-weary, they made their way home.

  23

  SARINE

  The Five Cats Tavern

  Maw District, New Sarresant

  Come now, what’s a lovely thing like you doing sitting alone?”

  The young man who took the seat across from her gave her a rakish smile. He’d been eyeing her since she walked in, he and a small knot of fellows hovering together around one of the tables near the hearth. She knew the types: young men, loud and drunk and happy to proclaim it to anyone within earshot.

  She smiled back. “Waiting for my meat pie, enjoying the music.”

  He made an exaggerated face, likely as much for the benefit of his fellows as for her. “That will never do. A pretty girl should be dancing.”

  On another night she might have accepted; the jongleur had two assistants beating a rhythm to accompany his eight-string mandolin, and more than a few men and women took to the common floor to try their hand at following the steps. But tonight her thoughts were on Madame Guillon, the proprietress of the Five Cats, and on the letter the tavernkeep was fetching from her workspace behind the kitchens. It had finally come.

  In reply to her would-be suitor she removed the leather gloves she’d been wearing, placing her hands facedown on the table between them.

  He gave her a curious look that melted into wide-eyed shock as he realized what he was seeing. A binder’s scars alone might not have been enough to deter him—freebinders, those who had fled from ecclesiastical training or deserted the army, were common enough in the shadows of the city. But the spiraling tattoos that made the King’s arms in blue and gold from wrist to knuckle were a sign of something else entirely. Not a marquist in the city would ink those patterns into her skin without a royal writ that cost more than an honest man made in a lifetime. Having them, and having them here in the Maw, could mean she was any number of things, not a one of which was suitable fare for a hardworking young man out for a drink with his fellows.

  He paled, backing away from the table without another word. A bittersweet feeling. This was her, now. This was who she was. Nice enough to have a means to deter unwanted attentions, but not every attention was so undesirable. Before, she had blended into the city’s underbelly like any other shadow. Now she shone like a beacon. Watching the young man scramble back to his friends with an ashen face and a story, watching them glance over at her with looks of shock and disbelief, she felt a piece of her old life torn away like roots pulled up by a winter storm.

  A wax-sealed letter dropped to the table in front of her.

  “Came this morning,” Madame Guillon began. “From a courier right dressed up like—” She trailed off into silence. “Your hands.”

  She winced and reached for her gloves. “Madame Guillon, I—”

  “I want no part of whatever you’ve mixed yourself in, girl. And I’ll not have you involving my tavern neither. Take your letter and be on your way.”

  She bowed her head, fishing for a silver mark to leave on the table. Twice what a letter delivery was worth, but Madame Guillon only watched as she gathered her things. Whispers through the room clung to her like the stench of a sewer as she made her way out into the evening air, unexpected tears stinging the corners of her eyes.

  She walked the streets of the Maw without care for appear
ances. Just as well none of the urchins or street toughs thought to take advantage. No telling what she might have done if they had.

  Even her uncle knew better than to ask after her mood when she arrived at the chapel, leaving her to climb the ladder into her loft, break the wax R that sealed the letter, and begin to read.

  Her uncle stared at her in the morning light cast by the stained glass of the main relief, his jaw firmly open beneath his gray mustaches.

  “Is it too much?” she asked. “The clothier showed me what to do with the cosmetics. It’s not too different from sketching, really, but I haven’t had time to practice, or—”

  “You look beautiful, child.”

  She smiled. She could feel the carmine on her lips, the powder dusting her cheeks, the kohl accenting her eyelashes. Was this how the noblewomen felt each day? As if they wore masks, but masks of their best selves. And the dress. Not a strict adherent to the haute couture of the court—she’d captured enough of the nobles’ fashion in her sketches to know it—instead a simpler, sleeker cut that ran headlong against the extravagance of the season’s trends. Where the noblewomen wore wide panniers and corsets painted bright with patterns of gold, the one she had chosen for today was a narrow-cut, close-bodied gown of paneled silk in a deep shade of crimson-accented blue. She felt a pang of guilt that she’d wear it first for Lord Revellion and not for Reyne d’Agarre, whose coin had paid the clothier’s bill. Still, a gift was a gift. She was not some porcelain doll to be dressed up and paraded about at her owner’s whim.

  D’Agarre had instructed his clothier to spare no expense for her accoutrements, and she could only wonder at the small fortune the finished products must have cost. Six dresses cut, sewed, and delivered to the Sacre-Lin not two days after they’d visited the clothier’s shop, with all the requisite cosmetics and accessories for each. D’Agarre had even made a gift of a box of pendants, rings, and all manner of precious stones. The better part of those she left in the box today, wearing only a simple silver chain and matching teardrops fitted to dangle from her ears. More than passing strange, for a man who professed support for égalité and the plight of the commonfolk to deal in such luxuries, but for the sake of Lord Revellion’s summons, she felt a guilty satisfaction that he did. In all, it was her uncle’s warm look that assured her she had not gone too far.

  “You are a vision of the Veil herself,” Father Thibeaux said with a smile. “And you will do fine with this Lord Revellion. Remember the nobles are flesh and blood beneath their finery, the same as you.”

  “Thank you, uncle,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

  She spared another look over her shoulder as she made her way to the chapel doors, finding him still smiling a rueful smile, as if he could scarce believe his eyes.

  Tethering Faith as soon as she left the chapel, she made her way down the steps toward the ruined iron gate that marked the boundary to the Riverways. Faith was a necessity—she wasn’t fool enough to imagine she could walk the streets of the Maw done up like this without attracting the wrong sort of attention—but her heart felt light in her chest as she walked, the same familiar sights of the slums taking on a new cast when viewed from behind the eyes of a well-dressed lady of means.

  She found the coach waiting for her at the district boundary, just as Lord Revellion’s letter had said. Tomorrow morning, at the district gates if you won’t permit my man to come to you directly. With some dismay she noted the coachman was the same ornery fellow who had driven her the first time. Well, perhaps he would see her in a different light now.

  She released Faith, shimmering into view standing just beside the painted door of the carriage.

  “Aren’t you going to help me up?” she asked in a sweet voice.

  The coachman gave a start and a yelp, which was pleasing enough on its own, but nothing to the delight of seeing his jaw hang open when he finally turned to see. She coughed, and received a flurry of apologies as he jumped down to assist her up the steps.

  This time, she hardly felt the rattling bounce of the wheels over cobblestone.

  She drank in the sights as they rolled through the Riverways, resisting the urge to pinch herself awake from a dream. Zi luxuriated on the velvet cushions opposite her seat, his scales seeming to drink in the blue-green of the plush, and he looked up at her with an approving nod.

  You look lovely, he thought to her.

  To her unfeigned surprise, it made her blush.

  “Thank you, Zi,” she said quietly. She took a deep breath, meant to settle her nerves. Instead it drove home where she was, and where she was going. Before, it had been a dream to pass through the gate of the Revellion house, with all the haze of waking from a long sleep. Now, dressed as if she belonged there, it would be somehow more real. And looking the part was the easier trick by far. A gnawing worry tugged at her, split between riding in a coach that could be sold to see a hundred hungry families through the winter, and the creeping certainty she was about to show herself a fool.

  They were halfway through Southgate before she realized they had not turned north and west toward the Gardens district.

  She slid open the panel between the coach and the driver. “Where are we going?” she demanded, nerves adding more bite to her words than she’d intended. “This isn’t the Gardens.”

  “Beg pardon, my lady,” the coachman said. “My lord’s instructions were to take you to meet him on the green at Rasailles.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a numb voice, closing the panel. Rasailles. Last time she’d been to the palace they’d arrested her. What did he mean by it, inviting her to the green? He hadn’t mentioned the palace in his letter. Was it a sign he disapproved of how she had been treated by his peers? A message to the nobles who’d deigned to have her imprisoned? Did he want to parade her about as a symbol of defiance, meant to spark some tension of which she couldn’t possibly be aware? Or just to assure her it was safe now, that her status had been bought and paid for?

  She rubbed her hands, feeling the scars and the fresh tattoos that covered her skin. It took effort not to fling the carriage door wide and make a break for the familiar. The costume of cosmetics and silk she had delighted in back at the chapel felt heavy on her skin as they rolled past the city gates, through the winding woods that separated the city from the palace grounds.

  Her heart skipped again when they emerged from the trees onto the sculpted landscape of the palace, rolling to a slow stop before the stone walkway. Not too late to bind Faith and make a mad dash back into the forest. Not too late to wake from the dream.

  “The commoner, Sarine Thibeaux of New Sarresant, at the behest of Lord Donatien Revellion, son of his lordship the Marquis Revellion.”

  The crier’s voice might as well have been a trumpet blast, cutting across the garden like a knife through her belly. When the carriage door swung open it was as if the curtain had been pulled away at the public bath, revealing her naked skin to the warm summer air. She could feel eyes drawn toward her with predatory interest. A new name. A new face. Unspoken questions hovered around her as she emerged at the top of the coach’s steps.

  And there he was.

  Standing this time, with a cane to support his injured leg, wearing a blue gold-embroidered coat cut in a style that evoked his military uniform. His black hair was pulled back and tied in a ribbon, his blue eyes looking up with, was it anticipation? Nerves? He stared as she emerged from the coach, his jaw hanging open where she had hoped for a welcoming smile.

  “My lord?” she said as she stepped down. “Are you well?”

  “Gods above. Sarine.” He leaned forward to offer a hand while the other rested on his cane. “You’re here. And you look …”

  She lowered her eyes, relishing the effect of her work.

  “… stunning,” he finished. “How did—?”

  “Thank you for the invitation to the palace green, Lord Revellion.”

  He closed his mouth at last. “Thank you for accepting it.” He seemed
to be making an effort not to stare, which threatened to make her blush again. Gods bless d’Agarre and his clothier. “You’re full of surprises, I must say.”

  She took his arm and they began to walk. If the young lords and ladies in attendance had scented blood when the crier introduced her, they were in a frenzy now. A polite frenzy, of course, but she felt the weight of eyes and whispers with every step they took.

  “You’re looking well, my lord,” she said, eyeing the cane.

  He noticed, and gestured with it as he took her arm, leading her away from the carriage as it rolled away down the path. “The docteurs had me lying abed long enough. I thought it past time for some exercise. We paid for Life and Body bindings on the night of the attack, but it’s been a slow recovery since.”

  She looked him up and down. They’d bound him with Life and Body?

  “How does that work, my lord? You’re not a binder yourself, are you?”

  He gave her a surprised look. “Me? Gods no. My father paid a goodly sum to retain the services of a retired fullbinder here in the city.” When she frowned, he added, “I take it you were never taught at an academy?”

  “No. I was taught … well, I taught myself.”

  With a blink, she sensed a nearby strain of Life beneath the royal green. She’d never tried binding to anything other than herself, but perhaps if she pushed the energy just so, weaving the tether through his leg …

  “You could hire a private tutor, it’s not unheard-of among the noble families, though the priests charge—” His voice cut off as he took another step, suddenly relieved of the limp that had required the cane. He looked down at his leg, then back at her, wide-eyed. “Sarine! You can bind Life, too?”