Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  Screams, and not on her account. The remainder of the steel-clad soldiers had moved from where they stood on the wall, but not to apprehend her, as she’d assumed. Instead they were laying into the nobles with their long halberds, cutting down their fashionable dress like wheat at a harvest. D’Agarre had not just infiltrated and turned some few of the council soldiers—he had subverted them all to his cause. The other purple guard had already abandoned his fight with her, running into the main hall to defend the nobles. And d’Agarre was fleeing the chamber.

  Another day, Zi thought to her.

  Frustration wrenched her gut. Gods damn it. She had to defend them. Spoiled, overindulgent, entitled sots they might be, but they were dying, and Donatien was among them. Without her they had no chance against men in full plate.

  Gritting her teeth, she channeled mareh’et’s gift.

  Justice for d’Agarre would have to wait.

  ELSEWHERE

  INTERLUDE

  JIAOSHEN

  Great and Noble House of the Crane

  Shinsuke Province, the Jun Empire

  He took his afternoon tea on the grass beneath the cherry blossoms.

  It had been an affectation in his youth, one that had grown on him as his skin pruned with age. The young Jiaoshen had taken great pains to maintain appearances. The Great and Noble House of the Crane expected no less from her favorite son. Once, it had been a house to fear, not so long ago. Once, these halls were alive with children’s laughter, sweet and pure.

  Now an old man sipped tea beneath a canopy of late-blooming sakura trees.

  The servants kept to the daily rituals, which they performed with the excellence of long practice. When the sun had passed its zenith just so, they approached from the appointed door at the southwest of the courtyard. Thin slippers barely rustled the ground as they carried the trays, swift footsteps carrying them in imitation of the aryu, an homage to the wind spirits. It was to wind and water the Great and Noble House of the Crane owed its first allegiance. The tea ceremony was perhaps the purest expression of that loyalty, a fact of which he reminded himself often. The blade-dance was an ugly thing in comparison. But such was his gift; he had no aptitude for tea service.

  Beside him on the grass lay his implement, a manacle in the shape of a blade, never farther than arm’s length since the day he’d taken it up. Folded steel, honed to an edge that was his duty to maintain. It was the masterwork of another man, the fulfillment of another calling. It fell to the Great and Noble House of the Crab to smith the weapons, for their allegiance was to earth and stone. His blade had cost his house dearly, a price paid in more than gold and gemstones. But he had not been the one who sacrificed for the sake of trade. It fell to lower souls to trade their gifts away for glories. Unthinkable, for a blade-dancer to traffic in such fare.

  No, the price he paid was in a calling left unfulfilled. Smiths could create masterwork blades. Tea service could be sipped and enjoyed. Those gifted at masonry or carpentry could relax beneath the fruits of their labors, solid roofs and sturdy walls around them. Gifted mathematicians could see truths, and philosophers, too, in their way. All around him, men and women grew ripe with age, their talents put to good use. They created; they built; they left a legacy of finished works adored by all.

  Jiaoshen waited.

  He waited for a challenge, for an enemy. He waited for someone foolish enough to test the mettle of the Crane in open combat. In his youth, he thought it the honor of all honors to be adopted into this bloodline. It could be said well and truly that no house in all of the Everlasting Empire boasted a finer tradition of swordsmen than the Great and Noble House of the Crane. Now, seasoned with age, he had come to see that ruin came in many forms, not always borne on the edge of a sword. Tragedy could strike, an earthquake, or the great tsunami that showed the disfavor of the koryu, the water spirits. An ill-advised trade, a caravan taken by bandits as it lumbered across the steppes. Seeds could fail to take root; crops could wither. Blight. Plague.

  And pride.

  Pride above all. Pride in the glory of the honored tradition of his house. Pride that turned away generations of hopefuls, come to him to learn at his hand. Pride that scoffed to teach the unworthy, that shunned the thought of adopting fresh blood into a legacy that traced its line unbroken to the last God-Emperor himself. Pride that grew old, content with a reputation that made clear: Seeking a place with the Cranes was naught but wasted effort. Pride that convinced itself the waning reputation of the Cranes was a woeful mistake, that one day a worthy student would come and shine bright the glories of his house once more.

  The smiths had their steel. The carpenters had their woodwork. The traders had their fortunes. And Jiaoshen had his pride.

  The servants finished the tea ceremony, and he sat contemplating. He remained there under the cherry blossoms until evening fell. As the sun hid beyond the horizon, more servants rushed to light the paper lanterns that decorated the courtyard. Still he sat, cross-legged on the grass beside his sword.

  The servants had relit the lanterns twice by the time the stranger entered and sat across from him.

  The stranger was dressed all in white to signify he was hanarun, unclaimed by a bloodline. His head was covered by a hood and a mask, like one of the jinata, though it would have been a queer tactic for one of their assassins to approach him so boldly, and in white instead of their traditional black. The man wore white gloves, and laid a sheathed blade in a white scabbard beside him on the grass before he sat.

  Jiaoshen met his eyes. Young eyes, ringed by smooth skin visible above his mask.

  “Honored master,” the voice said in accented tones, though the newcomer spoke the Jun tongue. “I have come seeking your skill with the blade.”

  Almost Jiaoshen flew into a rage and dismissed this upstart from his presence. He dared to beseech the Great and Noble House of the Crane without bothering to learn the proper forms for the hanarun’s request? A long, indrawn breath kept him centered. Let this young fool speak what he will. Jiaoshen would respond in proper form.

  “Bloodless,” he intoned, voice rasped from the hours he had spent in silence. “Crane has need. Would you make an offering?”

  The newcomer bowed his head. A gesture of refusal?

  “No, honored master. I do not stand before you as hanarun.”

  “You wear white,” Jiaoshen said, breaking the ritual exchange.

  “Once, this was worn to signify a man’s intent to take up the God-Emperor’s path.”

  He nearly laughed. Perhaps the claim was true; Jiaoshen was no philosopher, to remember ancient writings and whispered memories. Instead, he asked, “This is your intent then? You seek to become a God?”

  The man nodded gravely. Was he serious?

  He did laugh at that. “Well then, young man, you must tell me. How can the Great and Noble House of the Crane assist you on your divine path?”

  “As I said, I have come seeking your skill with the blade.”

  It took a moment for Jiaoshen to realize his meaning. Blasphemy.

  He snatched his scabbard and rose to his feet in a smooth motion, teeth grinding in a snarl.

  The young man looked up at him, still cross-legged on the grass.

  “You are an old man,” the newcomer observed in even tones. “You could surrender willingly.”

  “Make your challenge,” he spat, voice dripping with cold venom.

  The stranger sighed, reaching for his scabbard as he stood.

  “Very well.” The stranger drew steel, and Jiaoshen copied the motion fluidly, like water from a cloud. “Jiaoshen of the Great and Noble House of the Crane, I challenge you to the surakai, my gifts wagered against yours.”

  Jiaoshen had never heard of the surakai but he took the boy’s meaning clearly enough. This was forbidden. He knew deep in his bones. This was wrong.

  “I accept.”

  Nodding as if it were a foregone conclusion, the stranger paused to remove the white glove from his left hand. Jia
oshen stifled a gasp as the stranger revealed a hand twisted and black, covered in sores, with protruding veins of blue and purple.

  “What vileness is this?” he demanded, a touch of fear creeping into his voice.

  “Not all gifts are won easily, honored master,” the stranger said softly.

  Locking eyes, he felt fear settle in, deep into his old bones. What had he done?

  “Begin,” the stranger said, setting his guard. By the ancient rites of the duel, first attack went to the man who had been challenged.

  Swallowing hard, Jiaoshen let his long years of practice take over. He snapped into the One Thousand Fans, a two-handed form that rained high cuts from the left and the right.

  His opponent adopted the Steps of the Wind, considered the perfect complement. Together, the blade-dancers executed the opening stanza in unison, the prearranged steps playing out precisely as they should. Neither man flinched or made a mistake, and so the steel rang out its song, a rhythm of cuts and parries that Jiaoshen had practiced ten thousand times before. The blade-dance was art refined to science. The slightest misstep would result in a killing blow, on either side. Every move and countermove had been prescribed, practiced, and tested. The end result a beautiful harmony that filled the courtyard now, blade against blade, steel against steel.

  The passage ended, and Jiaoshen bowed in spite of himself. He felt tears streak down his face at the beauty of the dance.

  “You would have been a worthy apprentice,” he said softly.

  “You would have been a worthy teacher, honored master.”

  The stranger’s turn to begin the next stanza. The man in white raised his blade in his right hand, and brought the twisted mockery of his left up level with the hilt. This was no form he recognized.

  The left hand pulsed then, a sickly purple glow.

  Jiaoshen felt his lungs constrict, and recognized sorcery for what it was before he died.

  INTERLUDE

  LLANARA

  Among the Tents

  Ranasi Village

  Thundercracks sounded through the tents, smoke from the warriors’ muskets billowing toward her in a mimicry of an early morning fog. The ash and powder stung her skin, burned when she inhaled it into her lungs. A delicate pain, like the screams carried on the wind, from across the village. She smiled, listening to the sounds of her men charging forward. Her warriors.

  Her fingers shook from the memory of her kills, and she slowed her pace, walking between the tents, savoring the sights and smells of the victory around her.

  A red haze flared at the edge of her vision.

  Unbidden, her senses quickened into a semblance of a viper. Another victim, hiding among the tents. Vekis coiled around her forearm, though she hardly needed to glance at him to know his scales would be flushed reds and pinks, the soft shades of fear rather than the deeper crimson of anger and hate. So, one of the Ranasi had thought to hide, perhaps to slip away after she and the rest of her tribe were distracted by celebration of their victory. A foolish idea, born of cowardice.

  She tried the entrance of each tent along her path, looking inside to find the straggler. Empty, each one, until she pulled a flap back to be greeted by incense smoke, and an old man seated cross-legged beside his fire.

  “You are the vessel for the madness of the spirits,” the old man said as she entered. He was dressed in the full regalia of a shaman, covered head to toe in paint and furs. Had he been donning the ritual garb since their attack started? What a fool.

  He bowed his head. “Kill me, and be done with it.”

  Her eyes narrowed, though she said nothing. Always the men needed to believe themselves in control. As if he had the power to give her permission. As if she required his acquiescence.

  After he was dead, she left his tent, quivering from the kill. Her legs shook, the raw pain of exertion in the name of pleasure. Her kaas drank the red, pooled deep until it shifted to black, sharing it with her as their victim died. A mind-shattering sensation, no duller for having spent the morning invoking it again and again.

  “Llanara,” a man spoke from behind. “The village is clear.”

  She welcomed Venari’Anor with a gesture. A warrior now, where before he had been Valak’Anor, among the foremost hunters and traders of the tribe. He had not dared style himself Vas’Khan. That title—warleader—belonged to her, even if tribal custom did not allow her to take it in the open. When Arak’Jur returned she would offer it to him, and no one else. Only the guardian had gifts deserving of a place at her side.

  Vekis’s scales flared green, and Venari’Anor’s eyes closed as he drew in a sharp breath, letting it out slow. She felt a tinge of jealousy as her kaas shared the pleasure of their kill. The feeling faded as quick as it had come, replaced by arousal, seeing him touched by her power.

  “You see, honored brother,” she said, laying a hand on his forearm, “obedience to the will of the spirits is its own reward.”

  He reached for her, and she allowed it. Arak’Jur may have first rights to her, but he was far away, and fighting kindled fire in her blood. A pale echo of the sensation bestowed by Vekis’s gift, but her body hungered for it all the same.

  He took her there in the open, on the paths between the tents.

  When he finished, she rose to stand, adjusting her skirts into place.

  “Has there been sign of Ilek’Inari?” she asked.

  “No, spirit-blessed,” Venari’Anor said, still kneeling in the dirt, his long rifle dropped beside them. “He was with us when we crossed the river, but none of the warriors have seen him since the attack began.”

  She frowned. “He could not have fallen. The Ranasi guardian is dead, and Arak’Doren had no apprentice. No common warrior could kill a guardian, even an Ilek training to become one.”

  Venari’Anor nodded, but said nothing.

  She waved him away. “See to the rest of our people. If you have word of Ilek’Inari, send it to me at once.”

  He rose to his feet and went.

  Troubling. The Sinari would take it amiss if a guardian had fallen, even if Ilek’Inari was merely an apprentice. Could Arak’Doren have trained another guardian in secret, before his death? Perhaps the Ranasi shaman had seen her intent and given warning? But no, if that were so, their attack on the Ranasi could not have gone so well.

  It had happened exactly as it was written in her Codex. Vekis had whispered its meaning to her, every step, from Ka’Ana’Tyat to their glorious entrance into the Ranasi village. He had promised her the Ranasi would greet them as friends, and be unprepared for their attack. He had promised her the Sinari people would accept her leadership once Ka’Vos was gone. He had even promised that the mareh’et would aid her in killing Arak’Doren, then lie down and let her kill it when the deed was done. It was enough to believe what her people said: She was truly spirit-blessed. What was Vekis but a spirit given form, known only to her and the chosen few to whom she allowed him to appear? Her companion had knowledge of things-to-come, more sure and steady than any shaman. And armed with that knowledge, her people would rise.

  “Can you see what has become of Ilek’Inari?” she asked her companion. “Has he fallen?”

  I cannot see one man, unless he is of great import. Ilek’Inari is irrelevant.

  “Without a guardian, my people will grow concerned.”

  Irrelevant.

  She nodded, trusting Vekis’s wisdom. If it came to it, she would weigh her gifts against any guardian’s. Her people were safe. If they worried over not having a guardian to protect them from the wilds, perhaps it was only a vestige of the past, one more thing to be cast aside as they tread a new path.

  Mmm.

  Another flush of deep red, and black. More kills nearby. Odd. Venari’Anor had reported the village clear.

  Shouts, then the cracks of musket fire. The sounds of fighting, not merely cleaning up some last few Ranasi villagers. She rushed toward it. A pack of hunters returning to the village, perhaps. Yet another sign of the spi
rits’ favor, if her people had come upon the Ranasi without their full complement of men.

  She rounded a pair of large tents at the edge of the tribal meeting ground and had barely a moment’s warning before throwing herself into the dirt. The poles and canvas of an entire tent sailed overhead, a pair of warriors flying with it to crash in a heap in the field behind her. She choked on dust, recovering her breath, then looked up and saw the source. Not hunters returning to the village. Women. Baskets of fruits and seeds had been discarded beside them as the rest of their number cowered behind one, standing in the center of the space. An old matron, eyes misted gray, facing down a dozen Sinari warriors approaching her from all sides.

  “Cowards!” the woman cried, waving her hands as a torrent of wind whipped toward one of the Sinari warriors, cutting him down where he stood. “Spirit-cursed! You dare to strike us after offering blood-oath!”

  The rest of the warriors edged back, hiding behind Ranasi tents, ramming powder and musket balls to reload their weapons.

  “Red,” she whispered to Vekis as she crawled to her knees. “Now.”

  No need.

  “What?” she hissed.

  We have enough Black to drain her.

  She watched as Vekis’s scales darkened, and the matron rounded on the warriors, her hands raised again.

  “Vekis—?”

  It is done.

  This time, no rush of wind blasted through the tents. The look of horror on the old woman’s face was proof enough of whatever Vekis had done. And her warriors took its meaning as motivation to strike, stepping out from behind their cover, muskets leveled to fire.

  Her eyes rolled back as Vekis shared the pleasure of each kill, the women’s screams punctuating each thundercrack of the guns. The men, too, shared in it, as Vekis’s scales flushed green. Confirmation that this was the will of the spirits. This was the path the Sinari were meant to tread.