He stumbled into the chamber before he felt it, then stood amazed at how he had not noticed before.
Pain.
Beautiful, glorious pain.
An ache that resounded through the ages, feeding into him like the fumes of a chirurgeon’s draught. His eyes rolled up as it crashed into him, calming the thirst to a low hum as his senses fought to regain control.
There, came Saruk’s voice in his mind, satisfied. And more, when you complete the seal.
He blinked, finally seeing the source. He stood in a massive chamber of smooth stone, bare of any adornment save a crystalline enclosure at its center. A diamond-shaped pillar around which it seemed this chamber had been built, rushing up to a high ceiling and emitting a soft green light that spilled across the expanse of the room. And somehow at its center: a woman.
Could it be? A single woman at the heart of so much emotion? He had seen hundreds suffer without producing so great a yield. Yet there she was, with no others in sight. A single figure encased in crystal, ribbons flowing and frozen alongside her, preserving the illusion of motion within her towering enclosure.
Go to her, Saruk urged. Complete the seal.
A part of him hungered to follow the instruction, drawn by Saruk’s promise of more. But his thirst had quelled, and the rest of him stared up in wonder. Who was she? The Codex made no mention of this, yet even from a distance there was a certain familiarity. Even with her features blurred behind the crystal, he felt certain he had seen this woman before.
He stepped forward.
Yes. Hurry.
His instinct triggered him to alert. A sound? A change in the patterns of the air? Someone was coming. Strong emotions.
Frustration sparked through his bond to Saruk. Hurry. We are vulnerable. Complete the seal.
Another step forward. He raised a hand, somehow unsurprised when an arc of brilliant blue energy streaked from the crystal to connect to his outstretched fingers. Yes. This was right. The woman trapped within the crystal seemed to beckon to him, promising shelter, glory, duty, pain, all at once. Another bolt streaked toward him as he came closer. The newcomer was almost upon him now, almost to the chamber, but those instincts had been muted to a distant hum.
Yes, thought Saruk. Finish it.
His fingers reached toward the crystal, raw energy pulsing between his flesh and the transparent enclosure.
He recoiled in horror.
No, Saruk flared. What are you doing? Complete the seal now!
He stared into the crystal, finally close enough to recognize the woman trapped within. Sarine. The girl who had come so close to interfering with his plans. The enigma unmentioned in the Codex, whom he had nonetheless bested to reach ascension, only to find her here, imprisoned. Betrayal and anger flooded through him.
“How?” he demanded. “How is this possible?”
Complete the seal, you fool.
“AHR’AI’ET!”
The shouted command thundered through the room as Saruk translated the words within his mind: Stop.
He turned to see the newcomer hovering in the entryway to the chamber, a woman of middle height clad in strange furs. Horror twisted her expression as she looked between him and the crystal, a mere arm’s length apart. Crimson flooded her eyes as a haze surrounded her, as Saruk managed to course a feeble amount of Red into his veins.
Instinct took over, a great gout of flame searing the air between him and the crystal. He rolled away across the stone floor, springing to his feet as another spear of fire ricocheted off the stone to his side.
“Uhrun’a qui ah’nira’l kepai!” the newcomer bellowed as Saruk translated: You have no place here.
He pivoted again, narrowly escaping another blast of flame, and he made a decision. Come what may, the crystal held the promise of power. Facing this newcomer with his stores nigh empty was certain death. He fixed his eyes on the crystal, and ran.
His attacker saw the move. A wordless howl accompanied a final wave of fire as he dove. Skin and clothing seared away as he made contact with the crystal.
White flared around him as he landed.
“Ah’nat. Siquve, ah’nat,” his attacker said as she approached. No. Please, no.
A dozen streaks of blue arced from the crystal as he lay on the ground, and energy washed over him. Pain replaced by numbness. Frailty replaced by power.
EPILOGUE
VOREN
State Rooms
The Royal Palace, Rasailles
One last appointment, sir.”
He sighed, removing his spectacles and placing them on the polished mahogany desk that dominated his receiving room. A handful of candles lit the chamber in a dim glow, straining his eyes beyond the ability to read any more reports tonight. Still, plenty of hours past sundown. No reason to stop working simply because this fragile body wanted to quit.
“Very good, Omera,” he said. “And some tea if you please.”
“Sir,” his manservant replied, offering a stiff bow.
He smiled. Obsequiousness did not come easily to the Bhakal, but properly trained they were the best. A curiosity this far north in the New World, and a luxury. Their deep black skin and practice of dedicating one eye to their gods as youths gave them a fierce countenance that could unsettle even the hardest men and women. A small edge when it came to the subtle games of power and consequence, but empires had been built on less.
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he picked up the last report he’d been reading—a treatise on the importance of preserving a trade alliance with the Thellan colonies to exchange New Sarresant textiles for sugars and tobacco. Squinting he could make out one word in ten. Not enough to grasp the details the subject required. A pity.
A rap sounded at his door, and he gave the call to enter.
“Gods be good, Voren, you’ve wasted no time,” High Admiral Tuyard said as he swept into the room, his formal uniform all long coats and epaulets, better suited for the ballroom than the bridge of a man-o’-war.
“Be welcome, Guillaume,” he replied, gesturing to an open chaise opposite his desk.
“Where did you find him?”
“A gentleman has his sources,” he said with a smile.
“A warrior-caste Bhakal for a manservant, Voren. It sends a message, whether you mean to or not.” Tuyard shifted forward to the edge of the broad cushion, patterned in a style of embroidered flowers, a design at the height of the fashion of the day. Tuyard continued with a meaningful look. “As does your choice of living quarters.”
“I take your meaning, my friend,” he said, reaching for a cup of tea proffered by Omera from a tray of pure silver. He hadn’t noticed his manservant’s return until the tea was at hand. They truly were the best.
“It is a risk, of course,” he went on. “But I think you will find the ardor for égalité somewhat cooled of late. Symbols remind men of what it takes to lead.”
Tuyard expelled a breath, almost a hiss as he laughed. “Bold, Voren. I’ve no wish to see your head under a guillotine.”
“I should think not.”
Both men smiled as they sipped their tea.
“What of the Assembly?” Tuyard asked abruptly when the moment had passed. “I can’t help but notice your office seems to have a hand on the tiller of their decrees.”
“We all have our means of influence, of course.”
That earned a frown, as he had known it would. Men of Tuyard’s station were unaccustomed to being far removed from the inner circles of their ventures. A stray thought passed his mind then, some sign read by his intuition though he could not put words to the reasons why. Time for a bold move.
“Tell me truly,” he asked, watching the High Admiral like a falcon before a dive. “Do you believe the King can hold his borders, in the Old World?”
Tuyard’s face darkened, and for a moment he worried he might have overplayed his hand. But no; men like Guillaume Tuyard did not wear their hearts on their sleeves. Emotion displayed was emotion meant to be seen, no
more.
“The strength of trade has long balanced on this side of the sea. And that renders military matters academic, if not inevitable. I’m no fool, Voren.”
“No accident that the Tuyard scion took a posting to lead Louis-Sallet’s fleet then.”
They shared a hard look.
Finally Tuyard gave a bitter laugh. “You should give thought to an heir yourself if you mean to see this through.”
Relief washed through him as the tension in the room broke. He rose to his feet with a smile.
“I can count on your support then?”
Tuyard rose with a formal bow, giving him deference due one’s superior, but only just.
“Until the last drop of my blood is shed, the seas run dry, and the eternal night accedes the day.” An old form of oath, from early translations of the holy books. It took him aback to hear it, though he concealed it from showing in his face.
“Been consorting with the priests, have you?”
“The faith will have their say, it seems to me,” Tuyard said. “Better for us if we make the proper signs now.”
He maintained an expression of warmth even as his belly soured. Just as well to cut this meeting short.
“Wise,” he said. “Though you must excuse me. The hour grows late and it appears I have grown old.”
Tuyard bowed again. “I’ll leave you to your rest then. We can review my men’s reports on the rebuilding efforts in the morning?”
“Very good, High Admiral.”
He eased back into his seat as the door shut, drawing a few deep breaths in between sips of his tea. Droplets caught on the bristles of his mustache, but the fire of it warmed his belly. A wise course to let younger men see him appear frail. Avarice took many forms, and ambition properly managed made for impeccable loyalty in the right sort of men.
No sooner had he risen from his desk again than Omera appeared in the entryway, head lowered yet still projecting awareness of the room around him.
“Will my lord be turning in for the night?” his servant asked.
“Yes. And no disturbances, if you please. I could use a few hours’ peace before morning.”
“Very good, sir.”
He made the short walk from desk to bedchambers feeling Omera’s one-eyed gaze on him despite the Bhakal maintaining the servants’ posture. Strange. The man’s service had not come cheaply, but perhaps the cost would weigh heavier than gold in having to adapt to his servant’s foreign ways.
No small relief washed over him as he turned the heavy lock on his private chamber, sealing away the outside world for a time in favor of the comforts of the familiar. He tried the lock himself once more to be sure. Satisfied, he began the process of undressing himself before a stand mirror nearly equal to the height of the room.
Whispers came, as they always did when he caught sight of his reflection.
Some days he relished them, reminders of hard-earned prowess at the schools of Folded Sun and Flowing Spirit, under the tutelage of the Great and Noble House of the Fox. A lifetime of training to harness his gift, the perfect guise and mannerisms of his subjects a suitable reward for hard-earned mastery.
Today he had little appetite for ego, and so he set this skin aside as he unbuttoned the long coats of his formal dress. Younger fingers made quick work where the marquis-general’s would have stumbled. Old minds were the best source of knowledge, but time demanded its price for wisdom. In these stolen moments behind locked doors he could relish the best of both halves. A sickening cost to think he was forced to live like this, without the accolades due a grandmaster who had risen through the path of hanarun. Yet all had agreed on the need, and he had not opposed it.
Sixteen cycles since their Lord had last tasted victory.
Catching sight of his birth face in the mirror he reflected on the essence of change. Who understood better than he? Who was better prepared to sacrifice, to wear these skins day and night to set their course in motion?
The time drew near, yet he put off his own ascension to lay the groundwork for their inevitable victory. He had his assurances; the masters would permit none to usurp his place. A difficult thing, to trust. That was a path in itself, with masters sure as skilled as he, seeking glory in their own way.
A lesson for another day.
For now it was enough that he had guided the ascendant of Order to her victory. One day they would be enemies, he and she, facing one another in the manner prescribed at the very making of the world. But first they must unseat the Three, the blasphemous Three who made mockery of the ancient way.
The thought threatened to unsettle him, and so he forced it from his mind. That too could keep.
He quieted his breathing, taking one more lingering look at what lesser men might call his true shape. Then he relented, allowing the whispers to resume as he closed the old man’s eyes and sought the meditation of sleep.
EPILOGUE
THE VEIL
Soul of the World
Gods’ Seat
Hope.
Dullness crept on the edge of her vision. Lines blurred and grew soft.
Her champions would curse her name if they knew, though she suspected they had begun to understand.
Paendurion, for all his rage a gentle soul. He could not see the need for balance. Could not understand the nature of the world.
Ad-Shi, wise and willing. In the end, too driven by fear to see the truth.
Axerian.
The pain of that loss tore through her.
Even she was not above sacrifice.
Dreams coursed through her mind as her body diminished. Would she remember who she was? Was it so simple, to be reborn?
She was afraid.
When? came the thought from Zi. Their connection had stretched thin of late. Another sacrifice.
Soon, she replied. After.
Warmth shone through their bond. Hope, receding as Zi faded from her conscious mind.
In the distance her enemy stirred. Vengeance echoed in her thoughts. Warnings.
Soon, she repeated.
LIES, came the response. I HAVE WAITED LONG ENOUGH.
His words thundered through her, and visions came. Memories of his price, of the pact they had made.
Encased in crystal, she could not retreat, could not offer the solace he craved. And so she endured, weeping silently.
And she waited.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks first and foremost to you, the reader. I started writing to tell stories to you and people like you. I’m humbled and grateful for the time you’ve spent in my world, and I look forward to entertaining you again should you choose to offer me another opportunity to do it.
Thanks to my agent, Sam Morgan, for seeing something in an otherwise terrible pitch. And thanks to my agency’s president, Joshua Bilmes, for relentlessly pushing me to be better.
This book wouldn’t be what it is without the efforts of the Orbit publishing team, and especially my editor, Brit Hvide. I may have held the knife when it came to killing darlings, but she showed me where to cut. I’ll miss our 6 A.M. phone calls—at least until it’s time to do the next one.
Thanks to my advance readers, Aidan-Paul Canavan, Mike Cooper, Sean Watson, Ryan Byrn, Kyle Murphy, and Bobby Crowe.
And lastly, thanks to my amazing wife, Lindsay Mealing. She fell in love with this book and lived in this world alongside me from the first draft to the last “the end.” I would never have found this story without her.
extras
meet the author
Photo Credit: Vakker Portraits
DAVID MEALING grew up adoring all things fantasy. He studied philosophy, politics, and economics at the University of Oxford, where he taught himself to write by building worlds and stories for pen-and-paper RPGs. He enjoys board games and card games of all sorts, once spent a summer in Paris learning and subsequently forgetting how to speak French, and gave serious thought to becoming a professional bass player before deciding epic fantasy novelist was the wise
r choice. He lives in Washington State with his wife and three daughters, and aspires to one day own a ranch in the middle of nowhere.
interview
When did you first start writing?
Well, that depends. Soul of the World is my first attempt at writing novel-length fiction. Or fiction of any kind really. But I’ve been DMing pen-and-paper role-playing games since high school, and that’s where I learned how to keep an audience engaged with my stories. There’s a lot of drama in writing. Role-playing taught me to step into a character’s head, to speak and think in their voice. Translating that to writing meant learning the craft of prose, but the storytelling instincts were already there.
Who are some of your biggest influences?
I’ve always tried to allow myself to be influenced by greatness, which is fortunate because there is so goddamn much of it in SFF. Robert Jordan got to me in middle school, so he’s near the top of my list. Brandon Sanderson is pretty high up there, too. Recently I’ve been going back to the swords-and-sorcery well of Robert E. Howard and Fritz Leiber, but I also absolutely adore more modern stuff like Nora Jemisin and the dynamic duo that is James S. A. Corey (Daniel Abraham/Ty Franck). In general I’m influenced by whatever I’m reading now. Which as I’m answering this is Django Wexler and Octavia Butler, but will be something else by the time this is printed!
Where did the idea for Soul of the World come from?
Originally Soul was a fantasy western. Arak’Jur was a bounty hunter Sarine was going to hire to track down her uncle’s killer. This is back during the brief phase where I considered myself an outliner instead of a discovery writer.
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