Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  He returned it, steady and calm. “You have been thinking on this for some time, haven’t you?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “If I caused you harm—”

  Her back stiffened where she sat by the fire. “We heal quickly, the same as the guardians do.”

  “One does not heal from the bite of a valak’ar.”

  “Well and just the same, for a sheet of ice through the heart,” she said, her voice dripping with a sudden fire. “Arak’Jur, I am frightened of what is to come. Whatever we can do to prepare ourselves, to prepare each other, we must do it. Your gifts have been tested in ways mine have not. I would learn from you.” She lowered her eyes again. “Please.”

  He eyed her for a long moment.

  “Very well,” he said. “For now, we eat, and sleep. In the morning, we will see.”

  He awoke to find Corenna had a fire going, with the remnants of their turkey cooked and apportioned for his morning meal. Doing a poor job of hiding her anticipation, Corenna watched him eat.

  “You did sleep, I hope?” he asked between bites.

  She returned his smile, a slight flush in her cheeks. “Is my eagerness so plain?”

  “It is,” he said.

  She stood, stretching with her arms above her head, offering him a demure smile as she backed away to let him eat while she attended to the horses, leading them on a rope line well away from the clearing where they’d slept. He watched her go. Corenna was a small woman, as things went. Half a head shorter than Llanara, and slender where Llanara was toned and lithe. Even so, Corenna was strong, and had held her own during their travels, even at a guardian’s pace.

  He’d nearly finished by the time she returned. Wise, to lead the horses away; the creatures would not take well to the sort of display he knew Corenna had in mind. Yet she said nothing as she returned, only lingered nearby until he tossed the last bone to the ground.

  “All right,” he said. “Time for practice?”

  She nearly leapt forward. “Yes.” Then a moment later. “How shall we do this?”

  “Did you and Arak’Doren never …?”

  “No. He thought it vulgar, when I made the request.”

  “And yet you persuade me,” he said, amused.

  “Circumstances have changed, as we said—”

  “I know, Corenna. No sense making a decision twice.”

  She gave a satisfied nod. “Then, how shall we proceed?”

  “I know little of your limits. With my gifts, the spirit grants a blessing for a short time, thereafter withholding their power until suitable time has passed.”

  “The same with mine. How long must you wait between blessings? The women’s magic varies, and I cannot say why. I suspect it has to do with pleasing the spirits.”

  He nodded. “Just so with the guardian’s magic. When their gifts are put to vulgar use, the spirits can withhold their blessing for some time.”

  “Then perhaps we will see for ourselves what the spirits think of our exercise.”

  “A wise point.”

  “Shall we begin, then?” she asked.

  “You wish me to attack you?”

  She grinned. “If you can.”

  One moment she stood, smiling at him with her deep brown eyes. The next, her pupils frosted over, and a lance of ice sprang from her fingertips. Without thinking he drew on lakiri’in, throwing himself to the ground with all of the great reptile’s speed. A near thing. He could feel a searing pain down his lower back where the tip had sliced his skin.

  He let instinct take over, rolling to the side as another salvo came roaring through the air, peppering the dirt with hunks of ice. He sprang to his feet, racing forward in a blur, bolstered by the gift of lakiri’in. Corenna seemed to move as if submerged in water, pivoting toward him. Too slow. His unarmed strike took her across the chest, even as he swept her legs from beneath her with a swift kick to the back of her calves.

  The explosion of earth beneath his feet as she fell took him by surprise, sending him sailing backward through the air. His lungs expelled air in a crunch as he landed, skidding in the dirt on the other side of the camp. Calling on ipek’a, he crouched low and launched himself into the air, trusting his instinct to vector him down on top of where Corenna stood. Instead he crashed into a barrier of stone, conjured from nothing just above her head. Once more he fell, bracing his arms behind his neck as the stone came down with him, encasing him in a prison of earth and rock.

  Growling, he called for una’re, using the thunder-bear’s claws to carve him free of Corenna’s trap. A single swipe, even with his arms restrained, and the stone shattered in an explosive burst, showering the clearing with fragments of granite. In the cover of dust that followed, he rolled to the side and drew upon juna’ren, feeling his skin take on a camouflage of the patterns and hues of the scene around him. Time to set a trap.

  The dust settled enough to see Corenna edging forward, craning her neck to catch sight of him, her eyes glazed over in a slate gray. A few steps and she would be close enough for mareh’et to catch her. He stilled his breath, waiting.

  She frowned, opening her mouth as if to speak, then closed it abruptly, wearing instead a look of renewed determination. Her eyes went black, and he saw twisted shadows emerge from her fingertips, sweeping across the camp in an unsettling display, like vines of darkness growing through the morning sunlight. So much for his ploy; he knew better than to let one of those touch him. Perhaps she was close enough after all. He waited until she looked away, then drew on mareh’et and sprang toward her with a great leap.

  Almost. He’d nearly reached her with mareh’et’s spectral claws when he crashed through a solid wall of air that sent him spinning as if he’d dived through a screaming gale. He twisted in midair, violent torrents of wind threatening to tear him to pieces as he fell. He struck the ground with a wet sound, splayed on his belly, facedown in the dirt.

  “Arak’Jur!” Corenna called, rushing toward him. “I am sorry, I reacted without thinking. Please forgive me …”

  She knelt at his side, probing him for sign of injury, feeling his skin grown cold. “No,” she whispered. “Please, no. Spirits, please.”

  Still he lay there, giving off every sign of death. She grabbed him by the shoulder, tears beginning to fall on his skin.

  He waited until she turned him on his back to speak.

  “You would be dead, honored sister, if I called now upon the valak’ar.”

  She recoiled from him, then struck him lightly across the chest. “Arak’Jur, you are cruel!” She struck again, and he began to laugh. “How did you do this? I saw you dead. I would have sworn it to the spirits themselves.”

  “The gift of the anahret,” he said with a weak smile.

  She choked a laugh through the remains of her tears, wiping at her eyes. “A cruel trick.”

  He nodded as he closed his eyes, resting his head back against the dirt. “May as well keep that fire going, and retrieve the horses. I expect we’ve lost a day or two to our practice.”

  He felt her at his side once more. “You are hurt.”

  “We heal quickly,” he said. “Thank you, Corenna. Vulgar it may have been, but a refreshing exercise, nonetheless.”

  “Spirits send we need not use what we have practiced.”

  He opened one eye to see her looking down at him, her eyes still full of concern.

  He managed a slow nod in spite of the pain. “Spirits send it may be so.”

  36

  ERRIS

  Marquand’s Tent

  1st Division Camp, Outside New Sarresant

  No. Bloody no. Not if the Exarch himself came down and licked my boots for the privilege.”

  She sighed. Whatever else he was, Foot-Captain Marquand was an incurable bastard.

  “You really don’t have a choice, you know,” she said.

  He scowled at her.

  “Is it so awful? Marie seemed unfazed by the experience, and Sister Elise described it as ‘enl
ightening,’ once she passed the shock of it.”

  “You can enlighten the piss from my cock, and the same goes for the priestess.”

  “Is that what you’re afraid of, soldier? That I’ll step behind your eyes, reach down, and find you’re packing somewhat less than you’ve boasted?”

  “Fuck you, d’Arrent.”

  “I’d put a knife in your belly if you tried.”

  Another dark look. Well, this was going nowhere. She slid her eyes shut and shifted her vision to the leyline grid beneath them. Still orderly lines for the most part, this close to the city. It could be difficult to trace the patterns when one strayed too far from civilization. Here it was simple. Body, always abundant near the army. Life, abundant virtually everywhere. Of Death she saw only a few small clouds, bless the Gods—never a comfortable leyline energy to encounter, knowing its source. And Shelter. Shelter. It seemed a waking dream that she could still see it, white strands like pearls along the leylines where there had only ever been formless haze. Since the barrier, when she stepped behind Sister Elise’s eyes and grasped Shelter for the first time, the ability had not faded. A miracle, a legend from a story. She had four bindings now, and with Need … who could say how many more she could gain by stepping behind her vessels’ eyes? Perhaps all of them.

  And it was time to see if she could do it again.

  She found Need within the foot-captain. A much larger reserve than usual. Strange. She found it difficult to believe Marquand was suddenly overcome by a need for her to bind her senses to his. Another key to understanding how Need worked, perhaps? Perhaps the vessel’s need sparked the initial connection, and thereafter it was driven by hers. It would be a marked departure from the rest of the leyline energies, if so.

  “You sodding cunt,” Marquand began when he saw her eyes close. “You tyrannical, shit-stained, whore-loving—”

  Ah, much better.

  Not that it was pleasant stepping behind Marquand’s eyes. She could feel the wine sloshing through his senses, as if she had donned a veil of fog. A wonder the man was able to function at all.

  His reluctance to allow the binding was another puzzling question. She seemed to be able to take control at will, no matter his objections. If that was so, what was to prevent the enemy commander from seizing the golden light beneath key officers of the Sarresant army at the height of a battle? Perhaps Marquand’s acquiescence was required the first time they established a connection, then not again. It did seem much simpler to tether Need through a vessel on subsequent attempts, after the first link was made. But even so, that first link could be established through subterfuge, and she had not required consent from Marie, Sister Elise, Vicomte-General Carailles, or the unnamed soldier from Fantain’s Cross. There was a mystery here, and she would damned well see it unraveled.

  But first, Entropy.

  Taking a slow breath to steady the dizzying sensation brought by the wine in the foot-captain’s belly, she slid Marquand’s eyes shut and let herself see the leylines as he did.

  Life and Death remained. But where she typically saw the red motes of Body and the white pearls of Shelter, Marquand saw only gray haze, and so it was when she regarded the leylines through his eyes. No Body or Shelter. Instead she saw purple cubes, snaking at right angles in a grid that seemed to suggest a pattern without ever actually confirming one.

  Entropy. The newest binding—well, the newest apart from Need. Discovered during her lifetime, in the midst of the Thellan War, after Sarresant seized half the territory Thellan had claimed in the New World. An energy built from decay, chaos, things in order being unmade.

  Reading descriptions of the various ley patterns couldn’t hope to do it justice. She knew from her studies long ago, after she had first been taken away from her father and told she would become a soldier, when they had forced her to learn every pattern in hopes she might recognize somewhat more than she had first been able. A vain joke. Seeing a ley-energy for the first time was unmistakable. The gray haze of patterns one could not tether and bind paled before the colors and patterns of a known energy like midnight before sunrise.

  She reached for the Entropy energy, still wearing Marquand’s skin, and found nothing. Just as it had been with Sister Elise at the barrier, she could not touch the leylines through her vessel’s eyes. She made another attempt to be sure, then gave a satisfied nod when she failed again.

  She released the Need binding, spurring another stream of invective from Marquand. She didn’t bother listening. Instead she closed her eyes, shifting her vision while her heart raced.

  Entropy.

  Red motes, black ink-clouds, green pods, white pearls, and purple cubes. Body, Death, Life, Shelter, Entropy. Just like that, Erris d’Arrent became the first binder in recorded history to command five leyline bindings, and well on her way to have all six. She laughed in spite of herself. It had worked.

  Marquand scowled deeper. “You think this kind of mind-fucking is funny, d’Arrent? This is no better than forcing yourself on some kitchen maid no matter that she’s screaming ‘no.’”

  “You’re right, Marquand. I apologize.”

  “This is beyond the boundaries of duty, this is—Wait, you what?”

  “I apologize. You’re right: It is an invasion of your person.”

  “Well, damn right,” he said, still eyeing her with suspicion.

  “Even so, Foot-Captain. Care to see the fruits of today’s efforts?”

  He glowered at her.

  She bound Entropy through the tips of her leather glove, the thinnest sliver she could manage. A hiss of steam rose from the doeskin leather; she snuffed it out before it could do more.

  Marquand scrambled to his feet, eyes wide.

  “Oracle’s tits, that’s impossible. That’s Entropy.”

  “Yes it is, Captain. And I’m going to need your help to see just how far this can go.”

  Discretion proved the greatest challenge in selecting candidates for Need bindings. Revealing her ability to see through others’ eyes to Marquis-General Voren had itself been a risk, if not to her life then at least to her station as a battle commander in the army. She wasn’t fool enough to imagine new and vast sources of power going unnoticed by the ruling class. That she learn its use was a necessity born of circumstance; they couldn’t hope to triumph against an enemy with Need if they didn’t make use of it themselves. But she noted Voren had kept her ability quiet pending further investigation, and that was certainly no accident. Easy to imagine herself the target of innumerable intrigues once word spread of the new binding. Now, adding the ability to bind five—or more, if the binding worked as it had with Mind—types of leyline energies was a threat to any chance of her ever earning out her royal marque, of ever attaining the hand tattoos that marked her a free woman. Not that she would know what to do with herself outside the army. But she had no desire to live bound in some academy while priests and scholars demanded to know exactly how she did it.

  She could trust Marquand. For all his bluster and love of drink, he was a loyal man not without subtlety. He understood at once the need for tact when approaching binders to further experiment with Need, and had offered to round up candidates himself to buffer Erris from prying commanders and uncomfortable questions. Too, it had been Marquand’s suggestion that they limit their initial investigations to binders, men and women already known to him, and to her. She’d agreed at once with his reasoning that the strange golden light—until now only the subject of rumors regarding some dark force employed by the enemy—would be better received as one of the mysteries of the leylines if the vessels were binders themselves. And there was an opportunity to identify new Need binders. That would be a coup. They’d decided to start first by screening the binders of the 1st Division for the ability, hoping to learn what they could before reaching out to other commanders. And if she was able to complete her arsenal of leyline bindings during the testing, so much the better.

  “Lance-Lieutenant Acherre here for you, sir,” Sadre
lle called from the entrance to her tent.

  “Very good. Send her in.”

  Acherre ducked under the tent flap and made her salute. The young woman was all vibrant energy, the restless need for action of a cavalry officer without orders. Erris recognized it all too well. Acherre had taken to wearing her blond hair pulled back in the same fashion as Erris herself. That combined with the lieutenant’s insignia at her collar and the scabbarded saber dangling from her belt made Erris feel as if she were on the wrong side of a looking glass, seeing the image of herself ten years before.

  “At ease, Lance-Lieutenant,” she said, giving the counter-salute and gesturing to one of her chairs. “Make yourself comfortable, if you wish.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Acherre said as she sat. “I was disappointed when your aide led me here rather than toward the city. They say the corps commander secured us every well-appointed waterfront townhouse in the Harbor.”

  “They exaggerate,” she said with a wry smile that suggested they did not exaggerate much. “And I prefer to work here when I can. Too many soft cushions and I’ll feel it next time I’m in Jiri’s saddle. How is training going with your mount? Oboros, was it?”

  “Yes, sir. The training is slower with me than it is with him. Body comes naturally enough to us both, but Mind is a challenge.”

  “How so?”

  “I have trouble making the images appear convincing enough when I’m mimicking Oboros, rather than just myself. I’ll keep working at it, sir. We won’t disappoint you.”

  It was a challenge, of a certainty. Learning a horse’s tendencies—its senses, the limits of its own awareness—was an undertaking measured in years, to reach the mount’s full potential.

  “You have my every confidence, Lance-Lieutenant,” she said. “Trained cavalry fullbinders and their mounts are the heart of any army.”

  They shared a laugh at that. Pride in one’s branch of service was a time-honored tradition, not lightly given up even by generals who were supposed to be above such concerns.