Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  She lay in the dirt after it had finished, basking in the afterglow.

  “What was that?” she whispered to her companion. “What did you do to stop her?”

  Black.

  “Black,” she murmured to herself. A new gift. “It takes away the magic of others?”

  Silence.

  “Vekis, I would know more. You harvest it from killing our enemies?”

  More silence. A maddening trait. It meant she was close, so close to understanding.

  She had come to know the kaas were secretive creatures, but she had become adept at divining their mysteries. Already she’d learned more than Reyne d’Agarre had ever known of their nature. Not Reyne d’Agarre’s fault, merely a limitation of his kind. He was a fair-skin, where she had the wisdom of the spirits to aid her in understanding, the inborn gift of every Sinari woman. Intuition. Without it, Reyne d’Agarre could grasp only the smallest measure of the spirits’ grand plan. He had been a fool to give her this gift, but it had been inevitable. It was the spirits’ will that she take up this charge.

  In the moment, she had a vision, extending beyond their war on the Ranasi. She would lead, not only the Sinari, but all the tribes who would follow the call of the spirits and take up arms for war. A grand chieftain, the likes of which there had never been, not in the most ancient stories.

  “Vekis, with the Ranasi destroyed, we will reach out to the other tribes, those who would not turn their back on the spirits’ call.”

  Yes. The Olessi, and the Vhurasi. And more. Allies will be provided, in furtherance of your cause.

  “Allies?” This was new.

  A great army, come for bloodshed, an aid to greatness on ascension’s path.

  She weighed Vekis’s words in her mind. He spoke in riddles, but she could tease them apart, piece together the whole from the fragments of each part.

  “The fair-skins,” she said. “They sprout from the earth like weeds behind their barrier. Our path leads there. The spirits mean for us to attack the fair-skins’ city.”

  Silence.

  She smiled.

  INTERLUDE

  THE NAMELESS

  Library

  Gods’ Seat

  Astack of dusted tomes gave off a rank odor beside him as he worked. The powers that maintained this place took care to ensure he had the small comforts—the musty rot of old leather, the frayed edges of vellum and papyri, the ribbed spines of the same editions he had studied as a boy, in the great libraries of his people, long dead these many centuries. Try as he might to clean the dust or care for the scrolls as he unwound them, always he found this chamber and its tomes precisely as they had been when he first ascended, when he first claimed the mantle of the champion of Balance. Only a new awakening brought change, and the rare new tomes produced while they waited for the moment of ascension; these were the sweetest delicacy offered by this life of almost-Godhood. The best and brightest minds of each age, compiled for his pleasure, adjoined to the classics in this, the greatest library the world had ever known.

  Today he perused the work of a modern essayist, a pamphleteer working in the native tongue of the people of Sarresant. Treatise on the Virtues, by one Jaquin Fantiere. Delightful reasoning, an echo of some of the Jukari masters, who during his boyhood had made their arguments against the tyranny of the Amaros Empire. Did it reveal some deeper truth, when philosophers of disparate era and circumstance came to identical conclusions? Was there some essential human ideal in cleaving to freedom of thought, freedom of opportunity, and all the rest of Fantiere’s creed?

  He smiled, relishing a particularly succulent argument on a point of epistemology, calling into question the knowability of truth when facts corresponded with beliefs by accidental means. Fantiere intended it as satire: His readers were never meant to take it at face value when he pointed out that the nobles were best suited to rule despite basing the foundations of their lordship on faulty assumptions of inherent superiority. But there was sound logic underlying the philosopher’s mocking tone, and Axerian appreciated it even as he turned the irony on its head.

  The people of this cycle named him their enemy. The Nameless. Amusing to see how close they could come to the truth and still fall so very short of understanding. He was no more the enemy of the Gods than he was a God himself. Sixteen cycles ago he’d been an ordinary man, the same as his protégés among the kaas-mages tied to him through the book they called their Codex. Sixteen times now he’d watched and nurtured would-be champions as they drew near ascension, the very path he’d followed as a Jukari philosopher, uncounted years before. But where his path had ended with triumph—the cleansing of the Regnant’s vile influence, the forging of a world of sunlight, joy, and knowledge—the ascendants of this age would end their path on the edge of his curved shenai blades, as their fellows had done in the sixteen ages prior to this one. Such was the way of things now. A better way, for all it stung to pay the price of wisdom. The soul of the world could not be left in the hands of the unproven.

  He set the Treatise down beside a stack of holy books, thumbing open his copy of the Codex to a passage he had written that morning. Clearer perhaps if he borrowed from Fantiere. A better idiom, more likely to be interpreted correctly by his intended audience. He dipped his quill in the inkpot, mulling over the words as he reached within for the coursing blue energy that was the source of the Codex’s link with its brothers and sisters, the relics he had handed down the last time the Three had walked the earth.

  Mmm, Xeraxet sounded in his mind. More violence?

  “It seems appropriate, considering,” he said, licking the edge of the quill even as the coils of blue energy fought to escape his grasp. A desperate struggle to control the Goddess’s power, but a familiar one. No need for outward sign when the conclusion was inevitable.

  Xeraxet appeared on the edge of the table, his scales a flickering shade of purple and black. Onyx eyes stared their disapproval, and he laughed. “Soon, my friend. These will be the last missives for some time. A great many threads to stitch together, before the end.”

  His kaas said nothing further, only laid its head back down and watched him write. The words came out in a flowing sequence, verse punctuated by the power of the Veil, sealing his every line into the pages to see them mirrored and reread by the kaas of every would-be ascendant of Balance in the world.

  Satisfied, he blew the ink dry and sat back, rereading his work.

  It was done.

  Nerves blossomed in his stomach. He’d put this off long enough. The Codex would keep, and if centuries of life were enough to let him recognize when he dallied to avoid an unpleasant task, well, he had not found the secret to eliminating such delays altogether.

  Is it time?

  His eyes went back to the book, lying open on the desk. Perhaps another line …

  “No,” he said, as much to Xeraxet as to himself. “No,” he repeated, standing. “I would see her first.”

  Xeraxet glowered, frustration seething through his coal-black scales.

  As you wish.

  He stared up at the Goddess, frozen in her crystal prison.

  For a moment he pictured the chamber as it had been at the moment of his ascension. Empty, save for a surging mass of energy at its heart. She had been there, watching, beckoning him forward to complete the seal, to bind himself as her champion of Balance. It had been his idea, the betrayal, when he and Paendurion and Ad-Shi turned their gifts on her at the moment of their victory. No sooner had the last of the Regnant’s champions fallen than he had tapped into the raw energy of the Seat of the Gods, using it to bind the Goddess while his companions took their first taste of her power.

  It had worked. He’d half-expected it not to. But they’d frozen her in her prison, siphoning away the Goddess’s power to keep them alive between awakenings. The Gods’ Seat had never been more than a temporary refuge, a place where her champions would rest between their ascensions and the moment of conflict with the ancient enemy. Now it was home f
or him, Paendurion, and Ad-Shi. Who better to stand against the Regnant, to ensure the world never again fell under his shadow? The Three had proved themselves once. With the Veil’s power to sustain them, to aid them in snuffing out their challengers among the would-be ascendants of every age, they could ensure the world they’d built would endure, free of the Regnant’s corruption. For sixteen cycles now his plan had worked. And the Veil herself was the price.

  He gazed up at her, encased in crystal, a vision of perfection. The flowing ribbons around her made it seem as though she moved, the light casting twisting shadows as it streamed through the edges of her prison. How much more did she know? How much more did they need from her, even now after sixteen cycles of victory? Especially now.

  “What would you tell us, if you could?” he asked. “What secrets have we missed?”

  Only silence in response. That serene look, eyes closed as the ribbons seemed to swirl around her.

  Why do you speak to her still?

  He smiled. “Perhaps one day she will answer.”

  Not likely.

  “One should never presume the past is a predictor of the possible.”

  Quoting your own verse?

  “Who will remember it otherwise?”

  More silence. He smiled again.

  Silence suited his mood, else he’d not have come here. A sad thought, that his library full of wisdom went unheeded in this age. The fools of this age had no idea the true nature of the enemy. And now, if he’d interpreted events aright, the Regnant’s champions had managed to pierce the Divide, had come to the Vordu lands, where the would-be ascendants of Order, Balance, and Wild drew nearer the moment of reckoning. The Regnant’s ascendants had never managed to pass through before, but he could think of no better explanation. A greater threat than any they had faced in sixteen cycles of Godhood. Enough to send a trickle of fear through his veins as he stared, looking up at the Goddess in her prison.

  Again he studied her, tracing the smooth curve of her skin. She had fought the enemy for countless lifetimes, long before he, Paendurion, and Ad-Shi tasted the first breath of their mortal lives. She had fought, and lost. The world during the time of the Amaros, the Jukari, and the Vordu had been a shadow of the lush beauty it held now, even with the ravages of destruction visited upon it by the Three.

  Yet always, despite it all, she was venerated.

  The Veil. It was as if some part of her rested in the deepest thoughts of every man and woman. Always they found a place for her in their myths and legends. Always they remembered the Goddess.

  If he failed, would the world remember him?

  He thought not. For a cycle or two perhaps, if the conflicts over the Gods’ Seat were contained. If by some measure Ad-Shi and Paendurion could find victory without him. If they failed altogether and the Regnant was allowed to reclaim the Seat, there was little enough hope for any of their memories. Perhaps even the Veil would fade then, in time.

  “You mean to go through with this, don’t you?”

  Ad-Shi’s voice rang through the chamber despite her small stature, and the softness of her words.

  He turned to the entryway, meeting her eyes. Deep pools of brown, eyes that could measure a man in a moment. He didn’t bother to smile; she would see through it. They understood each other, Ad-Shi and he.

  “I do, sister,” he said. “Our enemy grows bold. We must be equally bold to match him.”

  She raised a hand, forestalling his words as she swept into the chamber. “I have heard these words. Know that I disapprove.”

  “And Paendurion? Is our champion of Order still smashing his furniture?”

  It might have earned him a smile under better circumstances. Instead she held her expression, cool and even. “You have ever walked close to the edge, but this course is folly, even for you.”

  “Nevertheless, I am decided.”

  She came to a stop a few paces away, ignoring the crystal at the center of the chamber. “Axerian, do you mean to fail?”

  “No, Ad-Shi, I do not mean to fail.”

  “What am I to do, if you fall short?”

  His heart softened. Few could understand the burden they carried. More than once Ad-Shi had turned to him for comfort, and he to her. “There is still a chance. Before an ascendant completes the seal, before the path is closed to—”

  “I know this already. You ask me to dance along the edge of a knife.”

  He bowed his head. “Yes. It is a narrow thing.”

  A moment of silence stretched between them. Ad-Shi focused on him, avoiding looking toward the crystal humming at the center of the room.

  “Please,” she said, pain showing in her eyes.

  “Ad-Shi, I must do this.”

  She held his gaze, then spun and walked away.

  “Ad-Shi,” he called after her. “Ad-Shi, please.”

  He took a step toward her, but she made no move to stop.

  He let her go.

  Tears welled as he turned back to the crystal.

  Now is it time?

  He took a deep breath, keeping his eyes fixed on the Goddess’s face as he spoke. “Yes, my friend. It is time.”

  You understand once I exhaust my reserves, you must ascend once more to return here.

  “Yes. I understand.”

  Very well.

  He gave a last look, sadness touching him as he traced the lines of the ribbons flowing around the Goddess’s frozen form. She remained still, exactly as she’d been when he bound her so many years before.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered to her as his kaas began.

  A thousand colors flashed before his eyes. His body pulsed with energy, and time distorted, sped to a crawl. Hours passed. Minutes. He heard a scream, dwindling to nothing on a distant horizon, and felt the walls around him twist away. A shroud of darkness enveloped him, choking away his senses in a violent spasm. He was a wisp of wind, a drop in the ocean, a sheath of skin pierced by a needle under the raking claws of a desert sun. He was a God, and then no longer. A gift rescinded. A destiny refused.

  He was a man, like any other, standing on the streets of the Market district.

  He released his breath.

  Flakes of snow settled atop his arms and shoulders, a gentle caress welcoming him home.

  PART 4: WINTER

  SEASON OF THE VEIL

  46

  ERRIS

  Foudroyant, Main Deck

  Harbor District, New Sarresant

  A wall of Shelter sprang up below the crow’s nest, five spans above her head. Puffs of mist leaked out as a volley of pistol and carbine shot struck against the shield, dissipated into harmless vapor. Gods damn it. It’d been too much to hope Life was the extent of this bastard’s talents.

  “Cowards!” he cried from above. “Traitors!”

  Raising her pistol, Erris braced herself against the mizzenmast. This piece of cowshit had killed four of her men before they sighted him, hiding like a coward amid the Foudroyant’s rigging. He was a bloody good shot, though, she’d give him that much.

  “The Nameless will have you all,” the man cried. “Woe to those who walk the traitors’ path. Woe to those who abandon faith.”

  Any moment now. She could have torn his shield apart with Death, but she had no desire to climb up there and settle it hand-to-hand. She kept her pistol arm steady.

  “Curse the lot of you for fools. Curse you with the wrath of the holy Veil, for hers is vengeance. Vengeance for the betrayed.”

  In an eyeblink the Shelter vanished, and the long barrel of a sighted rifle cleared the edge of the crow’s nest. He was quick; he’d need only a moment to fire before he raised the shield again.

  She was faster.

  Three shots rang out, sparks lighting against the sails as they whipped in the wind. His rifle clattered over the edge of his perch, falling to the deck below. A man-shaped silhouette slumped over, and no Shelter sprang up again. Cheers went up from the dock, and she stood to acknowledge them, then vaulted the w
ood railing around the ship’s masts and made her way back to the gangplank to disembark the ship.

  “Fine shooting, sir,” Aide-Lieutenant Sadrelle said as she stepped back into place among the officers of the 1st Division.

  “Same to you men,” she said with a nod to acknowledge the rest of her command staff. The Shelter-binder-turned-sniper had been patient in the extreme, hiding in the rigging, waiting until he saw the stripes and stars of officers’ insignia before he started shooting. “How is Lance-Captain Pourrain? Is he—?”

  Sadrelle met her eyes with a grim look and shook his head.

  “Bloody coward,” she said.

  Nods of assent among her aides as a courier approached from the northern Harbor, where sounds of fighting still rang in the distance.

  “Word from Brigade-Colonel Savasse, sir,” the courier said. “The crew of Rear-Admiral Dubois’s fleet is subdued and surrendering. He asks whether he should devote his strength to keeping them under guard, or to bolster Brigade-Colonel Vassail’s lines in the northern Harbor.”

  “Neither,” she said. “Have Savasse make for Brigade-Colonel Chellac’s position with the Sixteenth, at the boundary of the Harbor district. Deliver the prisoners into Chellac’s keeping, then move the rest of his brigade to reinforce Vassail from the west.”

  “Yes, sir,” the courier said.

  “Hold here,” she said to the rest of her officers. Damn but this would be easier if she had brought Jiri into the city to carry her forward while she worked.

  She tethered Need, reaching out for Lance-Lieutenant Acherre.

  “—break them, damn it. We can push—” Brigade-Colonel Vassail cut herself off, turning toward Acherre. “Chevalier-General, sir. What orders?”

  “Savasse’s Ninth Brigade will be coming to reinforce your line within the quarter hour. Plan accordingly, Colonel.”

  “Sir, yes, sir. These sailors are hardly organized. We’ll break them, sir.”

  “Aim to take prisoners, Vassail. These are men loyal to Sarresant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Vassail said, offering a salute. She returned it, then dropped the Need binding, her senses shifting back to familiar skin.