Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  He saw Arak’Atan’s one working eye widen, the red glow replaced by an empty, far-off look. And then his own vision blurred, the world seeming to fall away as he slipped back into the snow.

  He awoke to the sweet smell of cooked meat, and a haze of burning pain.

  A mumble died in his throat, formless words choked off by a searing fire. The slightest tremble ignited sparks hidden beneath his skin, and he fell still, followed by the dull echo of the pain. His eyes wouldn’t open.

  “Arak’Jur?” Corenna’s voice. Even the vibrations of her words were spear points in his side, though there was warmth there as well. The succor of his mother, and of Rhealla, his onetime wife. Comfort.

  He heard Corenna’s voice again, a muted wind that rolled over him in a wave of pain.

  Once more the world faded away. At the edge of consciousness, he heard another voice, barely above a whisper.

  It is time, guardian of the Sinari.

  Come to us.

  His eyes slid open, and he felt himself choke and sputter.

  Corenna withdrew a cloth from his mouth with a gasp, leaning over where he lay.

  “Arak’Jur,” she said. “Are you awake?”

  This time the pain was a distant companion, though his senses felt snared down by mud.

  He managed a nod, and a murmur of assent, feeling the taste of meat and broth in his throat.

  Corenna replaced her cloth by the side of the fire, atop the small clay bowl she had used to cook meals on their journey. Distantly he wondered where she had managed to scrounge enough brush to light the fire, here atop the Nanerat sacred mountain. No mistaking where they were; she did not have the strength to have carried him elsewhere, and the floating motes of earth and snow made it clear enough by themselves.

  “I’ve done what I can for your wounds,” she said in a soft voice, kneeling once more at his side. “Don’t exert yourself.”

  He drew in a deep breath, letting the pain ripple through him, testing its limits. Bearable.

  “The guardians heal quickly,” he said, forcing himself to lift his head, and look down.

  “Don’t—” she began, trailing off as she watched his reaction.

  She’d kept his body exposed to the cold. Certain death for another man, but a salve against the stinging burns for him. Thank the spirits she’d had the sense not to waste her furs on him; she wouldn’t have survived without them. She knew his body could handle the elements.

  As for his skin, well.

  It was a ruin. Hairless, cracked, and crossed with seams as if he’d been stitched together by needles. Still swollen red where the cuts ran deepest, and a tender, flushed shade of bronze even at its best.

  He managed a weak laugh. “It seems I’ve seen better days.”

  “Arak’Jur—”

  “Thank you, Corenna. Without your aid I would be dead.”

  She turned away, trying to hide a stifled sob.

  He sat up, and she snapped back to face him. “No, you must rest.”

  “I will recover,” he said, feeling his muscles cry out in protest. Even so, they obeyed. “How long have I slept?”

  “Two days.”

  He nodded. A good length of time, where the guardians’ healing gift was concerned.

  “Arak’Jur, I was afraid you would not wake, that you had fallen, that I had failed you.”

  “You fought well, Corenna. You did honor to your tribe.”

  This time she didn’t hide her tears. He reached for her, drawing her close. She stiffened, like as not worried she would do him some injury. He held her tighter, and she softened, sobbing against his chest.

  “Thank you,” she said when they separated. “I haven’t hurt you, have I?”

  “I’ll survive,” he said.

  She smiled, and he straightened where he sat, stretching his back. Spirits, but it burned, even now.

  “Do you mean to stand?” she asked.

  In reply, he curled his legs beneath him, ignoring the pain, and rose to his knees. She rose, offering him an arm. He took it, rising to his feet.

  “Ah, but that feels good.” It did. The icy rush of pain washed out by the vigor of blood coursing through his body.

  She let go his hand, making a show of inspecting him from all angles. “A surprising thing, the guardian’s gift,” she said. “You’ll be descending the mountain before nightfall.”

  He gave a weak smile as he drew another deep breath, like drinking from a spring of pure water laced with flame, and swept a look across the field. An otherworldly place. By now clumps of blood mixed with snow and earth had joined the other motes floating above the ground, giving a crimson cast to the sunlight piercing down from the cloudless sky. And there, at the far edge of the mountaintop, the last spire, and the cave entrance to the sacred place of the Nanerat.

  “Did you …?” he asked, glancing between her, the cave entrance, and the fire burning beside them.

  She gave him a questioning look. “Did I what?”

  “Did you enter Nanek’Hai’Tyat? Did you receive its blessing? Is that how you came to make the cookfire?”

  She frowned. “No. I gathered brush for half a day to make the fire. And I see no means of entering Nanek’Hai’Tyat. It must be as the Ranasi, and Sinari sacred places: sealed shut by the spirits.”

  “Sealed?” he asked, furrowing his brow. “You attempted to enter the cave, and were rebuked?”

  “What cave, Arak’Jur?”

  He looked once more, checking to make certain his eyes had not deceived him. It was there, a black opening in the side of the crag rising up at the far edge of the field.

  “There,” he said, pointing. “You cannot see it?”

  “No. Are you certain?”

  “I see it now,” he said. And at once, his memory sparked. “At Ka’Ana’Tyat, you said it was sealed as well. Could you see an opening there, when we made the journey with Ilek’Inari?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No. Our sacred places have been sealed shut since the spirits began their whispering madness.”

  “Corenna, no. Arak’Atan bore the gift of this place, the fire he used to scourge my skin. And I can see a cave there, leading into the heart of the mountain.”

  Her mouth fell open. “By the spirits,” she whispered.

  They shared a long look.

  “Go,” she said.

  Come, a voice echoed, at the far edge of his hearing, like a whisper on the wind.

  “Corenna—”

  “Go,” she repeated, more firm.

  “This is women’s magic, or a shaman’s. It is not my place to—”

  “Would you turn your back on such a gift, Arak’Jur? Would you ignore its promise, the power to defend our peoples? If the spirits will you to receive their blessing, I would sooner it pass to you than to men like Arak’Atan.”

  “It is forbidden.”

  “The spirits will speak for themselves of what is forbidden. Go, Arak’Jur.”

  He held her eyes.

  “Go, spirits curse you.” She wore a smile, laced with bitterness. “Before you see me overcome with envy that they chose you and not me.”

  “Corenna …”

  “Go.”

  He went.

  ARAK’JUR.

  The voice thundered through him, though he felt no pain. His body was distant, a memory of a memory. Had he been hurt? Here, he was whole. Here, he was aware.

  BE WELCOME IN NANEK’HAI’TYAT, SON OF THE SINARI. BE WELCOME IN THE BIRTHPLACE OF PEACE.

  It was the same sensation as with the great beasts, yet different as well. Softer. Older. Wiser.

  My thanks for your welcome, spirits of peace.

  IT IS AN OLD THING, FOR A GUARDIAN TO COME TO US. ONE WE HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN. BUT THE TIME IS SOON UPON US. THE GODDESS WILL SOON HAVE NEED OF YOUR STRENGTH. ARE YOU CHOSEN?

  Always they asked this, when he slew the great beasts. Almost he replied as he always had. Yet this time, it was not the same.

  You chose me to ent
er here, though it is no place for a guardian.

  YES. A GUARDIAN WHO WIELDS THE MAGIC OF WAR. A CHAMPION OF THE WILD.

  A light washed over him, bathing him in blue radiance. He could see a face, silhouetted by the light. A woman, but none he knew.

  WALK HER PATH. BECOME HER CHAMPION. SEEK ASCENSION TO THE SEAT OF THE GODS.

  She is not known to me, he thought. Nor is the calling or place of which you speak.

  A silence echoed between them, and then he had a sensation of twisting, shifting, as if the ground he stood on bent beneath his feet. Mist gathered around him, and he had a vision.

  Death. Corrosion and decay, plague and fire. All the lands of the world crushed by the weight of torment and suffering.

  THIS IS HIS WAY. THE ENEMY.

  He saw his son broken, pierced by the fangs of the valak’ar. His wife, who had cast herself before the creature with a wail of agony.

  Stop this, he pleaded in his mind.

  THIS IS THE HOMAGE HE REQUIRES. THE REGNANT. THE ANCIENT ENEMY.

  Please.

  WALK HER PATH. STAND AGAINST HIS CHAMPIONS.

  I stand against evil, and madness. Why do you show me these things?

  Another silence, and still the images played on. Death. Suffering.

  You are spirits of peace. Stop.

  Torment. Anguish.

  Why would you grant your gift to one such as Arak’Atan?

  A reckless demand, bordering on insult to the spirits themselves. As soon as he made it, the mist faded away, leaving behind only emptiness, a vast void surrounding him on all sides.

  Fear crept in. Had he overstepped?

  EVEN THE POWER OF THE GODDESS CANNOT STOP AN ASCENSION. WE HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN OUR WAYS. BUT WE FOUND YOU, FOUND YOUR PEOPLE. WE CALLED TO YOU, SUMMONED YOU TO LIVE AMONG US, TO HELP US REMEMBER. YOU CAME. AND NOW THE TIME DRAWS NEAR.

  A relief to hear them speak again. Even so, the meaning behind the spirits’ words eluded him. He thought as much to them. Spirits, I do not understand.

  ALL WILL BECOME CLEAR. WE WILL REMEMBER, TOGETHER. WALK HER PATH.

  I will stand against evil, no matter its source.

  IT WILL SERVE.

  Once more the blue light shone around him, a face masked in shadow looking down on him from afar. He heard a faint sound, a melody carried on the whisper of a breath, hidden behind the light. A songbird’s greeting, in the morning after a storm. A requiem, sung for the fallen after a great hunt.

  It held for a long moment before fading away. A dim whisper echoed in his mind as the song fell silent, but he could not make out the words.

  WOULD YOU HAVE OUR BOON, SON OF THE SINARI?

  Great spirits, I would.

  Energy pulsed through him, and he felt the weight of roots sunk deep within the earth. He was the great mountain, stoic and ageless. He felt the stirring wind, beginning as the clouds themselves broke against his peak, rushing down his slopes in a gale of biting cold. Spring water bubbled beneath his surface, and the rains poured down on him, the cleansing draught of life flowing down to the creatures below. He stood against the turning of the sun, lifetimes upon lifetimes coming and going in his shade. He felt what it was for the mountains to be born, the slow crushing of one land into another, jutting great spires of rock up into the dome of the sky. He felt the liquid secret at the mountain’s heart, the price paid for tranquil serenity. Flame given form, simmering deep within. A promise, delivered in vengeful fury. He felt himself torn apart under the weight of violence, billowing smoke and ash that blackened the sky. He was the mountain, the earth given form, and his blood was fire.

  The vision faded.

  REMEMBER US.

  The voice echoed through his head, and he expected the blackness to fade, returning him to the mountaintop. Instead he lingered, on the precipice of nothing.

  Was this part of the women’s secrets? Had he missed some part of their sending?

  Another whisper formed at the edge of his mind, then again. Too faint to understand, but growing in strength, as if each repetition added voices to its chorus.

  At last, he understood their words.

  “Let us speak.”

  Again.

  “Let him see.”

  Now he heard a mix of voices. “He is ours.” “He belongs to us.” “He must see.”

  Let them speak, he thought into the void.

  At once the voice of the mountain, the voice of the spirits of Nanek’Hai’Tyat, returned. YOU WOULD HEAR THEM?

  Who are they?

  THE SPIRITS OF KA’ANA’TYAT. THE SPIRITS OF YOUR PEOPLE.

  Yes, he thought at once. Let them speak!

  The whispers coalesced as one.

  “Arak’Jur,” they whispered. “We are dying. Save us.”

  What? he thought. What has happened?

  “War,” the voices whispered together. “War has come to the Sinari.”

  45

  SARINE

  Lords’ Council

  Southgate District, New Sarresant

  The hall will come to order.”

  The command echoed through the ornate chambers, accompanied by a crash of steel as guardsmen snapped to attention. The lords and ladies reacted slowly, as if they accepted the inevitability of the words but were in no hurry to be the first to comply.

  From the gallery above, Sarine looked down on a parade of plumage as the last conversations lingered on, banter tossed back and forth as the nobles found their seats. Only the steel-clad soldiers ringing the chamber upheld the gravity of what was supposed to be the principal governing body of the colonies. For the rest, a show of the latest fashions in the city: golds, crimsons, purples, and blues, with jeweled necklaces, studded scabbards, elaborate hairpieces, and slim-cut dresses. The last brought an unbidden smile. Whatever his failings, Reyne d’Agarre had employed a visionary clothier on her behalf; it seemed her little garden jaunts at Lord Revellion’s side had set something of a trend.

  Idly she wondered just how much of the politics decided in this chamber came about by virtue of these displays of fashion and wealth. Clear enough from the start that the Lords’ Council deliberated few matters of actual import. She’d nestled herself into place hours ago, alongside the other petitioners, and heard every name, every title called by the crier as they entered. She’d expected marquis, comtes, and comtesses, or at least their heirs, and heard instead too many second sons and daughters for the families represented here to be conducting their true business. Even so, it was an impressive display, enough to overawe the commoners who flanked her, dressed in their best finery and still a pale glimmer beside the bonfire of the nobility.

  She’d tensed when the crier had called “his lordship Donatien Revellion.” It had taken no small amount of argument to convince Donatien to sponsor her petition tonight—without his patronage, she’d never have been admitted to speak before the Lords’ Council—and he’d given it only on the firm condition she limit herself to presenting the activities of Reyne d’Agarre, leaving out the planned military coup to which Revellion himself was now complicit. He’d even insisted on giving some other pretext for her making the petition, thinking to insulate himself from the wrath of those loyal to d’Agarre. She hadn’t been able to convince him he was being a fool. As if men inclined to bloody revolution would be forgiving of disloyalty in any form, no matter if he claimed he had not known her purpose. That was not the way of the world. She knew little enough of high courts and politics, but she knew the coming days would be anything but the bloodless affair of which she knew Donatien still dreamed. And she had no intention of leaving out the treachery of the military.

  She cast another long look down below, where Donatien had taken his seat. Would he forgive her betrayal, understanding she did it only to try to stem the tide of violence? She was not naïve enough to believe it, no matter her hopes. Tonight in all probability marked the end of her affair with the son of a lord. All for the best, though the cut stung no less for being self-inflicted.

&n
bsp; “Order now, order, I say.”

  A clatter of steel sounded as the soldiers ringing the chamber snapped to attention, giving the lie to the illusion that they were decorative statues, dressed in the full-plate relics of a bygone age. The room fell silent at last.

  “Very good then. The Lords’ Council of New Sarresant is hereby convened and in session, his royal stewardship the Right Honorable Julien Duroux presiding, standing in for his grace the Royal Governor the Duc-General Cherrain, here to receive petitions from the assembled lords and ladies, or of designates with grievances appropriate to this council as so judged by the assembled peers.”

  “Your Right Honorable Stewardship, I have a grievance.” One of the young lords rose from his seat, a tall man with a pointed jaw and a solemn air.

  The steward, seated behind an imposing oak rostrum atop a dais at the center of the room, leaned forward to eye the speaker. “Lord Lemais, your name was not submitted to the docket for consideration.”

  “Nevertheless, your honor, I would speak, if it please the council.”

  The steward frowned, glancing down to shuffle a sheaf of paper sitting before him on the lectern. “Very well, Lord Lemais. Yours is the only matter brought before us by a peer tonight, and as such you may speak first.”

  The young lord nodded as if he had expected nothing less, and turned his back on the steward, addressing the nobles directly.

  “My lords, I have a grievance of the direst nature, testimony of deeds most heinous and foul.”

  His words brought a cloud of reverent silence among the petitioners waiting in the gallery, though the nobles seated on the floor below seemed somewhat less enchanted, stirring and exchanging glances back and forth across the hall.

  “Let it be known,” the lord continued, “that one of our very own peers stands accused tonight.” He pointed. “Yes, let it be known that the Lady Cherie Salliere has knowingly, and with malice aforethought, thrown such a gala for her seasonal debut that none of us shall be able to top it.”