Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  “Your Majesty,” Voren acknowledged, still standing at attention.

  “Oh come to,” the prince said. “At ease and all that. Be seated. What have you brought me? The stewards say you insisted it be kept secret.”

  A wise choice, one she had counseled when she had presented her vision to the marquis-general. Only a handful of soldiers knew the truth of the impending Gand invasion; a precaution, until they knew for certain the prince’s foolish order to withdraw would not be given. She suspected the sharpest of her brigade commanders had already guessed at her purpose from the training exercises she’d been running along the coast, but she would not confirm it without the assurance of this meeting.

  “Yes, Majesty,” Voren replied as he sat, while she and Acherre remained at attention. “First, a demonstration of a new weapon.”

  That got the prince’s attention, never mind the drink. He leaned forward. “A binding?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Chevalier-General d’Arrent, if you would, please?”

  “Sir,” she replied with a fresh salute, turning to the Crown-Prince. “Your Majesty. The binding is Need, a new type of leyline energy.” That got even the flowerguards to perk up from their lazy poise behind the prince’s seat. A new binding was exceedingly rare; for centuries there had been only Body, Life, and Shelter, until the great powers’ expansion revealed new powers, in turn driving them to more and greater conquests. Even so, discoveries came once in a generation at best. Need would be the third in three decades, a coup for Sarresant, never mind that Gand seemed to have had it first.

  She continued. “The energy allows a Need binder to establish a link with a willing vessel, whereby the binder assumes control over their actions, seeing through their eyes similar to a projected Mind binding, but with full control.”

  “And you are a binder of this new energy, Chevalier-General?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Lance-Lieutenant Acherre”—she inclined her head toward the other woman—“can see the energy but cannot bind it—we don’t yet understand why.”

  The prince cast a glance over his shoulder at the flowerguardsmen behind him, before turning back to her. “Continue with your demonstration.”

  She nodded. “Lance-Lieutenant, if you would please excuse yourself.”

  That earned a reproachful eyebrow from the prince.

  “Part of the demonstration, Your Majesty,” she said. “Your pardon, please, if you would excuse the lance-lieutenant.”

  He lifted a finger in approval, and Acherre saluted once more before seeing herself out of the reception chamber.

  “Now, Your Majesty, if you would provide me a phrase, one the lance-lieutenant has not heard.”

  Louis-Sallet chuckled. “A parlor game, Chevalier-General? Very well. Your phrase is ‘you wouldn’t know sense if it bit you in the ass.’ I believe that was your parting line to my brother, was it not, Voren?”

  She nodded, ignoring the repartee between the prince and her commander. She had what she needed. Shifting her vision, she saw the Need energy pooling beneath Lance-Lieutenant Acherre on the other side of the door. As ever, finding Acherre’s Need was a trivial thing, like donning a well-worn glove. Perhaps that was the benefit of Acherre being able to see the Need energy, even if the lieutenant had thus far failed to bind it; compared to Marquand, or any of her other vessels, Acherre seemed to fit.

  She tethered the binding and made the link. Her senses slid behind Acherre’s, with none of the lurching disorientation she felt with the others. One moment she was standing in the receiving room; the next she was on the far side of the door in the long hallway beyond.

  Pushing her way back into the receiving room, she was met with startled looks from the prince and his flowerguard.

  “The golden eyes are the sign of the connection,” she said with Acherre’s voice. “And the phrase is, ‘you wouldn’t know sense if it bit you in the ass.’” Ah, but it felt good to say that to a prince, never mind the circumstances.

  She let the binding go.

  “Well,” the prince said, his senses seeming to sharpen by the moment. “Now that was something.”

  “You see, Your Majesty,” Voren said, “there is truth to the rumors of the golden light behind the enemies’ eyes. And this is what it betokens: command from afar, by a binder of Need.”

  “I know damned well what it betokens, Voren!” the prince spat. He leaned forward as if to continue the tirade and found himself sliding out of the chair. If not for the timely intervention of one of his flowerguard, the prince might have graced the floor with his royal face. She knew to hide her disgust, but it was no easy thing. This man held the fate of the colonies, of the army in his hands?

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” Voren said, continuing as if the prince had kept his composure and his seat. “And you can doubtless see the advantages this binding offers for command.”

  “Are there others?” one of the flowerguard piped up, the one not presently occupied with helping the prince recover his seat. A young man, likely only recently graduated from one of the academies of the Old World. “Can it be taught?”

  She met his eyes, seeing in him a hunger for new power. She remembered well the feeling from her youth. This flowerguard had likely only just emerged from adolescence, thinking the door forever closed on developing new abilities. To hear a binder a dozen years his senior had come into a new binding—to say nothing of the other new energies she kept hidden for now—would kindle similar hopes and aspirations in every binder with a shred of ambition anywhere in Sarresant.

  “As I’ve said, Lance-Lieutenant Acherre can see Need, but so far I am the only one who can bind it, apart from however many the enemy has.”

  “How long have you had it?” the prince asked in a soft voice.

  She tensed at the question. There was an accusatory tone there, no mistaking.

  “Chevalier-General d’Arrent came into this ability at the conclusion of the summer campaign, Majesty,” Voren said. “We worked together to understand it. Duc-General Cherrain awarded her the Legion of Valor for its use in defending the city.”

  “‘The city’ refers to Sarresant itself, Voren, not this up-jumped newborn of a settlement. Never forget this is New Sarresant.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” Once again Voren dissembled expertly, a sign of long practice dealing with the nobility. Not a skill she ever hoped to cultivate.

  “And the Legion of Valor,” Louis-Sallet mused, his words running together. “There’s an honor that once meant something. Not a thing meant for commonfolk.”

  Voren turned and gave her a look, wilting the retort on the tip of her tongue. She drew a breath instead, urging herself to calm.

  “Majesty, there is more,” Voren continued. “Chevalier-General d’Arrent has established a Need connection with one of our spies, working from within Gand itself.”

  “How exactly is a ‘connection’ established?” the prince interrupted. “What’s to prevent this binding from taking control of someone important at a critical moment, someone like me?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” she asserted. “The Need link has to be voluntary, at least for the first binding, which is also the most difficult to establish. It depends on a shared need, or a hope, between the binder and the vessel. An enemy Need binder couldn’t link with you unless you were already a traitor.”

  Louis-Sallet’s face grew dark.

  “ … Your Majesty,” she added belatedly.

  “Forgiveness, Your Majesty,” Voren interjected. “As we’ve said, we are still learning the limits of this ability. Its functioning can be explained later.” He gave her a pointed look. “What matters now is the news Chevalier-General d’Arrent brings from the spy across the sea.”

  “They mean to invade the colonies, Your Majesty,” she said. “Fifty, perhaps sixty thousand men, at least ten dozen ships, likely more. I saw them firsthand.”

  Silence descended between them. The prince mouthed her words once more to himself, chewing on the
thought like a dog worrying at a bone.

  “How do you know they intend to sail across the sea?” the prince demanded. “Perhaps they merely intend a strike along our shores. Or perhaps they mean to invade Skovan lands, or surprise Thellan across the western channels.”

  “I saw only their provisions, Majesty—the ships were being loaded for a long journey. And beyond that, I have come to understand the enemy commander. He has displayed a pattern of bold, unpredictable moves. I believe he intends to strike here.” She left unspoken her belief that the mysterious enemy commander intended to attack the colonies precisely because she was here. He had promised as much, back in their exchange in the Gand camp, when she had seen through the eyes of Marie d’Oreste.

  “Why would they …?” The prince snorted. “No, never mind that.” He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Voren, you bring me a great new weapon; for that I give thanks. But this news, this changes nothing.”

  He rose to his feet, stumbling into the arms of one of his flowerguard.

  The rest of the room rose to stand as well, snapping to attention and watching as Louis-Sallet batted away the aid offered him, struggling to stand on his own.

  “We will speak on this new binding again,” the prince said, turning to make his way out of the room. The youth among the prince’s bodyguards met her eyes on his way out, but Louis-Sallet managed to make his exit without another word.

  The mood in the room was sullen, and quiet, as a royal steward led the three of them back to Voren’s carriage. Hardly a fitting conveyance for a pair of cavalry officers, but Voren had insisted, back in the Harbor. Now she doubly regretted her acquiescence, wanting nothing more than to saddle herself onto Jiri’s back and fly. She had dealt with her share of incompetent fools in her career, but never a man so doggedly stupid as the Crown-Prince Louis-Sallet de l’Arraignon.

  Acherre seemed stunned as they were seated in the carriage and Voren gave word to the driver to see them off. The poor lance-lieutenant had been brought up, nigh indoctrinated on tales of the divine right of the House de l’Arraignon since she was a girl, the same as every binder when they were taken for their training and service to the crown. And now she’d seen the face behind the mask. An ugly sight.

  “We do the best we can,” she said to Acherre.

  “Yes, sir,” Acherre said, sounding hollow.

  “We do at that,” Voren said. “Though that went poorly. I had hoped even the chance of an invasion might temper him.” He removed his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “Marquis-General, sir,” she said, “I am certain the enemy means to invade. I feared to say as much to the prince, but I spoke with the enemy commander, through our vessels. He intends to find me, and see me dead.”

  Voren regarded her for a moment, the jostling carriage casting a shifting light across the lines of his face.

  “I do not believe it will matter,” he said at last. “Louis-Sallet has made up his mind. He intends to give his order.”

  “Sir?” Acherre asked. “He cannot mean for us to abandon the colonies, can he? The people will be left defenseless.”

  Voren laughed, a mirthless, empty sound. “Oh he can, Lance-Lieutenant. And he means to. The only question that remains is whether we will let him.”

  A storm cloud settled over the carriage with those words. Treason. Voren knew it, as did she.

  Settling his spectacles back into place, Voren looked her in the eye.

  “There is an organization,” he began. “One that—”

  Thundering hooves approaching the carriage cut him off. One of the riders barked an order to the driver, and their team slowed.

  “What in the Exarch’s name is this?” Voren demanded, pulling back the window drapes.

  Two riders in purple drew close, peering inside the carriage. The flowerguards, the Aegis of the King. Once again the young man with the hungry look met her eyes.

  “Chevalier-General Erris d’Arrent,” the young flowerguard began with a nod. “Lance-Lieutenant Rosline Acherre. Both of you are under arrest, by the order of Prince Louis-Sallet de l’Arraignon.”

  41

  ARAK’JUR

  Meeting Grounds

  Nanerat Village

  The smell of cooked fish seasoned with unfamiliar spices greeted him as he sat beside the cookfires. A welcome respite from a long journey, though his and Corenna’s passage through the mountains had ended in a fashion neither had foreseen. The trek to the village had been cold, with promises they would speak on affairs between the northern tribes when they arrived.

  Arak’Jur had taken his first bites of the evening meal before he understood the reason for the Nanerat’s aggression. Empty places near every fire, and far too few men for the number of tents.

  He paused between bites, turning to regard Asseena, seated to his right.

  “Asseena,” he began.

  “Yes, Arak’Jur,” she replied before he could begin his thought. “War has come to the Nanerat. The greater number of our men are dead.”

  He set the remains of his fish on the mat in front of him. “Your shaman?” he asked quietly.

  “Ka’Ruwan was murdered by Arak’Atan of the Jintani. Ilek’Hannat survives him.” She nodded to a man in white hides, seated beside her. “He speaks with the spirits of things-to-come on behalf of our tribe.”

  “And your guardian?”

  “Arak’Erai fell to Arak’Atan as well.” She paused, meeting his eyes with a look of understanding mixed with sorrow. “You see why we feared a vision of a guardian drawing near our village.”

  The rest of the tribe continued eating in a muted din as her words repeated in his mind. This was no celebratory feast. This was a people clinging to an echo of life as they waited to die.

  “Oh, Asseena,” Corenna said. “Honored sister, I am sorry. The Ranasi mourn your losses.”

  “As do the Sinari,” he added automatically, even as he contemplated the bleakness of what had been revealed. They were a cursed people, of a certainty.

  “And what is that worth?” the apprentice shaman demanded from the place beside Asseena. “The mourning of tribes two moons or more away?”

  “Peace, Ilek’Hannat,” Asseena said.

  Still the sentiment hung in the air. Arak’Jur knew well enough his people could do little to help the Nanerat.

  “Did Arak’Erai have an apprentice?” Arak’Jur asked.

  “No,” Ilek’Hannat replied. “We have lost the guardians’ magic.”

  Arak’Jur suppressed a wince, only just managing to keep his features smooth. Unthinkable.

  “What of the neighboring tribes?” Corenna asked. “I have traveled among the Yanarat; have you reached out to them for aid?”

  Asseena and Ilek’Hannat shared a look.

  “They were the first to attack us, honored sister,” Asseena said. “Two seasons past. Arak’Uro led a war party onto our lands, armed with the guardians’ magic and the fair-skins’ muskets. I suppose he died as Vas’Khan’Uro.” Her voice resonated with sadness, though she kept her back straight, her eyes level.

  Corenna met her gaze. “Will you tell us what has transpired here, from the beginning?”

  “There is little more to tell,” Asseena said. “The Yanarat struck, and then the Hurusi. The Jintani approached us with offers of alliance against the madness of our neighbors, then murdered us the very night we sealed the blood-oath.”

  “The spirits have forsaken us,” Ilek’Hannat spat. “They have decided they have no need for their most peaceful children.”

  “Then you have heard the madness of the shamans’ spirits,” Arak’Jur said. “You have heard their calls for war.”

  A dawning recognition passed between Ilek’Hannat and Asseena, and they turned to him as one.

  “This is why we’ve come,” Corenna said. “Our peoples have heard it, too, and sealed our own blood-oath of alliance against that madness. We will not go to war.”

  “We have heard this before, from the Jintani
,” Ilek’Hannat said. “What is to prevent you from killing us where we stand, for being fool enough to listen to your talk of peace?”

  “What indeed?” Arak’Jur demanded, his blood suddenly hot. “You have no guardian. If I wished this tribe dead, it would be so. I will not be spoken to as if I am a spirit-cursed dog.”

  “You will not find us so defenseless, guardian of the Sinari,” Ilek’Hannat said in a rush, met by Asseena’s upraised hand.

  “Peace,” Asseena urged. “He speaks wisdom, Ilek’Hannat. We cannot mistrust every tribe for the folly of one misguided neighbor.”

  “You welcome the viper twice into your tent, woman,” the apprentice shaman barked, rising to his feet. “Be it on your head, but do not risk the life of the tribe for your foolishness.”

  Corenna laid a hand on Arak’Jur’s forearm, forestalling whatever reply he might have made. Instead, the three of them watched Ilek’Hannat storm away, a scene that drew eyes around the other fires as the rest of the tribe ate.

  Asseena sighed.

  “He hears their voices,” she said. “The spirits’ madness of which you speak. It is hard on him.”

  “Ilek’Hannat would have had you go to war?” Arak’Jur asked.

  Asseena nodded. “He urged that course, ‘to preempt attacks from our neighbors,’ he said, long ago. How wise he seems now.”

  “Fear of madness is poor reason to take up the mantle of madness yourselves,” Corenna said. “I name it wisdom, to have sought the path of peace, whatever the consequences.”

  “I recall Ka’Ruwan made the same argument,” Asseena said with a bleak smile. “Yet wisdom is a poor companion, when the nights grow long, and the winds blow cold.”

  “Not all among the tribes have heeded the spirits’ calls for war,” Arak’Jur replied. “The Nanerat are not alone.”

  Asseena nodded. “You speak of peace, and we would hear your words,” she said. “But first I would know: Will you help us hunt Arak’Atan?”

  He recoiled from the question.

  Asseena continued before he could reply. “He hunts us, Arak’Jur. When Nanerat women gather the last seeds and herbs before the cold spirits claim dominion over the seasons, they do so knowing Arak’Atan may strike at them from the shadows. When our hunters and fishers sleep in their tents, they do so in fear they may never wake. Ilek’Hannat is no full Ka, he sees only glimpses of what may come, but he says Arak’Atan is shrouded in a haze that clouds the vision of the spirits. He cannot reveal where Arak’Atan hides. He cannot give enough warning to keep us safe. Arak’Atan strikes, and we die.”