Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  Instead, when I sat down to write I had this image in my head of an invisible street artist sketching Louis XVI’s court. I wrote that scene instead. And the rest flowed from there. Discovery writing is a hell of a thing.

  The magic systems in Soul of the World are all so unique and complex. How did you come up with them?

  I craft magic to suit the needs of the story. I couldn’t have an invisible street artist without a magic system supporting it, and she would have been lonely without a companion to talk to. Thus came two of my magic systems.

  Most of the time the form and rules for the magic come while I’m staring at a blank white page. I don’t plan anything beforehand; I just allow myself freedom to experiment and am unafraid to liberally rewrite my earlier chapters when a better idea comes to me later in the drafting process.

  The power of three is a major theme in Soul of the World—what drew you to focus on that?

  Misdirection, actually! I wanted a story where the villain is one of the “chosen ones,” and our lead protagonist exists outside the system. Three is such an iconic number in Western literature and mythology, it’s easy to leverage the audience’s expectations that there should be three heroes—but the book is in four parts for a reason. There’s a lot of nuance layered into the story that will become clearer in the sequels. Even though I discovery-write my scenes, I have a pretty clear picture in my head of how everything fits together in the end.

  The military scenes and strategy of this book are incredibly detailed and well thought out. How did you craft these scenes?

  Full credit to Michael Shaara, author of The Killer Angels. I absolutely devoured his book when I was younger, and have been interested in nineteenth-century warfare ever since. The battle scenes in Soul are deliberately chaotic. I write my characters by imagining myself in their shoes, and a nineteenth-century battlefield is not a kind place. Smoke in your eyes, powder on your tongue, deafening cannon fire in your ears. That Erris is able to keep the strategy in her head and issue orders that lead her soldiers through the nightmare is a testament to what an amazing woman she is. I wouldn’t do a tenth so well in her place.

  Soul of the World has a phenomenal cast of characters. If you had to pick one, who would you say is your favorite? Which character was the most difficult to write?

  I immerse myself in every scene I write. I cried when I wrote the scene where Arak’Jur learns what happened to his wife and son. I fell in love a little bit with Lord Revellion when Sarine did. And I wanted to punch Paendurion in the mouth when Erris coldcocked him by way of Marie.

  They’re all my favorite. But Zi is maybe my favoritest. And he’s the hardest character to write by a mile. Every word he says is dripping with meaning, and I have to be careful not to give too much away to savvy readers when I’m trying to be cryptic.

  Soul of the World is the first book of a trilogy. What’s in store for us in future books?

  Oh God. There’s a new POV character in book two. I think I can say that much, right? He’s an asshole and a pirate and I adore him. In general the story gets much bigger. We’re going across continents, to visit places the cartographers of Sarresant have marked “HERE BE DRAGONS.” Things get intense fast. There’s not much in the way of slow buildup.

  If you could spend an afternoon with one of your characters, which would it be and what would you do?

  I’m boring. The thought of attending a salon with Reyne d’Agarre and debating the finer points of egalitarian philosophy sounds like heaven.

  Lastly, we have to ask: If you could have any superpower, what would it be?

  Are Hugh Jackman’s abs a superpower? I’ll go with that.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  SOUL OF THE WORLD,

  look out for

  THE ASCENSION CYCLE: BOOK TWO

  by David Mealing

  1

  SARINE

  The d’Agarre Manor

  Southgate District, New Sarresant

  Cushioned benches and tables ringed the interior of the chamber, a place designed for long hours spent studying the texts displayed in the bookcases on the walls. Sarine sat cross-legged beneath a towering shelf, a pile of books stacked and spread beside her. She’d meant to carry the first few to a table, but the first volume had suggested another three, and soon it was easier to work seated on the carpets.

  Ink smeared her fingers from the sheaf of paper she’d brought to note her findings. A sharp scent, too close to blood. Better if she didn’t remember what had happened the first time she’d come here, when Reyne d’Agarre had murdered a woman for drawing too near the secret of his madness. She tried to force the thought down and failed, taking a deep breath to steady herself. It wasn’t practical to cart the contents of the d’Agarre library to the Maw, and that meant coming here, even if it turned her stomach.

  Find something?

  Zi had perched himself atop two adjacent stacks of books, his scales a pale shade of green.

  “No,” she said. “Only remembering …” She paused. “It doesn’t matter. Zi, why do you think he kept a library like this? There are as many volumes on the natural sciences as history or politics. Some on music, sculpture, painting. What did he need with it all? Is it connected to …?”

  She couldn’t finish the thought. Thankfully Zi seemed to understand, meeting her eyes.

  Yes. d’Agarre had to know his culture, to incite the conflicts that led to his ascension.

  Zi’s words struck like a blow. She studied him, and found no sign of tension or distress, his coils hanging loose over the side of the books. She’d been careful since learning the wrong questions could hurt him, but he’d given a direct reply. Perhaps, if she phrased it delicately …

  “Is there a way to undo it?” she asked. “To bring him back? Axerian seemed certain it was too late, but perhaps …”

  This time Zi stared at her, his eyes flushed to a faint shade of red, his body rigid.

  She sighed. “I’m sorry, Zi. I didn’t mean to—”

  Death, Zi thought to her. Only death, and time.

  She nodded, staying silent until Zi went back to nestling atop his books. It wasn’t fair to push him, for all she hungered for answers. That d’Agarre’s library might contain somewhat more than history, arts, and natural science had been the reason she’d come here. Since the battle, she’d managed to piece together some part of what had transpired: Reyne d’Agarre had amassed enough power through his kaas to trigger ascension to the Gods’ Seat, in spite of intervention from the Trithetic Gods, the Exarch, the Oracle, the Nameless, and the Veil. Did it mean d’Agarre had become a God himself? The Councilman, perhaps, or, more fitting, the Madman. And there would be more.

  That was her fear. D’Agarre had ripped the city apart, murdered hundreds by his own hand, and drawn the wrath of the Gods to stop him. Another would-be ascendant might soak the world in blood.

  She returned to the volume open on her lap, a treatise on the history of mathematics that would have been well beyond her understanding, and her interest, if not for the scrawled notes in the margins. Quick strokes with a quill, in what she’d come to recognize as d’Agarre’s hand. Compare fig. 11c against Codex c16v4; reference to dichotomy paradox suggests infinite cycles more than figurative device. Rereading the passage to which the note corresponded did little to make it clearer, but she did it anyway, and reread it again. There was a trail here, and she meant to follow it. Another note. Same principles in Theorain, Histories of Pre-Essanic Gand, connection to Grand Betrayal.

  She set the book down gingerly, careful to keep the page open, and stretched as she rose to her feet. Theorain. She knew the name, a Sarresant scholar and a priest who’d worked in theology and natural philosophy, some four hundred years before the foundation of the colonies.

  Her legs ached as she strode across the chamber. How long had she been down here? Long enough she couldn’t be certain whether any daylight remained, tucked away as d’Agarre’s library was beneath th
e foundation of his manse. She’d managed to figure out the cataloguing system employed to organize the tomes, and went to the wall opposite the entrance, where the religious texts were shelved together, inasmuch as she hadn’t already raided them following other trails. The seven plinths at the heart of the chamber seemed to taunt her as she passed, a reminder that whatever else d’Agarre and his fellows had done, they had first taken the time to hide away their Codex—their Codices—from whomever might enter the manse in their absence. A maddening discovery, to find the seven plinths empty. She’d been sure the answers were there, in the tomes Axerian had used to corrupt and guide his followers, and found only dust where they had been removed.

  Theologies. She came to a halt, surveying the bookcase. A staggering number of books, and they must have been collected during Reyne d’Agarre’s lifetime, or at least, the only notes she saw written in the margins were in his hand. There. Thalcort, Thancault, Thibault. She frowned. No Theorain. She scanned the shelf again, then checked the rows above and below. It had been here, before, she could have sworn by the Oracle’s sight. Had she taken it, piled it somewhere, waiting to be reshelved? A survey of the room revealed no obvious leads; she’d have to dig through all her piles, to be sure.

  Something wrong?

  Zi’s voice, echoing in her mind.

  “Only my own carelessness,” she replied absently, scanning the shelves one more time. “I must have misplaced it, though I don’t think—”

  Green.

  She froze.

  Once, she might have ignored it, dismissed the word as one of her companion’s quirks. But she’d come to recognize the colors as warnings, announcements of the same powers Zi conferred on her, wielded by other kaas-mages. Green meant one of them was nearby, using the gift of soothing emotions, twisting thoughts.

  By instinct she snapped her eyes shut, revealing the network of leylines running beneath the manse. A scant source of Faith, but enough for a tether, if she needed it. Body in abundance, as it had been throughout the city since the battle. Life, and Mind. And Death.

  “Who is it, Zi?” she said. “Where is it coming from?”

  He is here.

  She pivoted toward the door, ready to fasten her leyline tethers into place. It couldn’t be Reyne d’Agarre, but he hadn’t been the only kaas-mage in the city, though if any had survived they’d stayed hidden since the battle.

  The latch clicked, and the false wall that hid the library among the twisting cellars of the manse slid open, revealing a hawk-nosed man in black, who wore a pair of curved blades in sheaths dangling from his belt.

  “Axerian,” she said, expelling his name like a breath.

  “Sarine,” he said, leaving the door open behind him.

  Axerian. The Nameless. A God, once, and then fallen, chronicled in the holy books as he became their ancient enemy. And now fallen again, somehow, part of the puzzle still beyond her understanding. But if Reyne d’Agarre had become a God, he had done it at Axerian’s expense. Whatever Axerian was now, he was a man, flesh and blood, the same as her.

  “Why have you come here?” she asked, still holding her leyline tethers at the ready. She’d fought by his side, months before, but he’d vanished after d’Agarre’s ascension. Even with Zi to give warning if he used the kaas’ s powers, she knew better than to let down her guard.

  Axerian glanced around the chamber, his usual grin replaced by a weathered look, dark shadows under his eyes, and a pale cast to his skin.

  “I might have kept a library such as this, once,” he said. “A fascinating collection, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She kept silent, watching as he paced by the philosophy section near the front of the room.

  “Of course, the names would have been different. Fantiere and Goman, for you, espousing the ideas of egalité, universal rights, the fundamental disposition of man. I knew them as the anti-imperialists, Dukane, Sa-Amat, Yishani.” He paused to smile, as though remembering distant friends.

  “Why are you here?” she asked again.

  “I might ask you the same,” he replied. “But then, I was indirectly responsible for this collection, wasn’t I? You’re here for Hanish, l’Arnaud, Conningdon. The Jendish scrolls, Theorain’s Histories, and of course, my Codex.”

  At the mention of the Codex, her eyes swiveled to the plinths in the center of the chamber. Still empty, as naked as they’d been when she first delved into d’Agarre’s manse, during the days after the battle.

  And suddenly, she knew.

  “You took them,” she said. “After d’Agarre’s ascension. You came here first. You destroyed the volumes you knew would lead me to—”

  “Destroyed? Never. I hid them, for posterity. The Codex first, and the rest when it was clear you intended to persist in your studies.”

  Rage flooded her veins, a red haze almost bordering on channeling Zi’s gift.

  “Sarine,” he said. “I need you to understand. Whatever the Veil did to bring you here, she knew you were a danger. The block she placed on Zi, the power you have already siphoned away from the rest of the Three. I can accept that we’ve made mistakes, mistakes which must be corrected, but the cost of allowing the Regnant to triumph in even a single cycle is beyond conscionable.”

  At mention of the Veil’s name, an image lanced through her thoughts, and a gut-wrenching pain. A chamber of smooth stone, distorted as if she viewed it through a glass. A faint green light. Three faces; two she didn’t recognize, and Axerian himself, staring up at her with tears in his eyes.

  “I need you to stand aside,” Axerian continued. “I won’t ask for your assistance, but my sacrifice must count for something. D’Agarre can be replaced in the next cycle, but two more ascendants will come forward, and I must meet them before they replicate the damage done here in New Sarresant.”

  Her belly ached, as though she’d been cored and skewered. Axerian spoke as if he had no notion of what had happened, but she could not put it past him to effect some power, some perversion, and pretend to innocence.

  “What are you …” she managed, her throat too dry to form the words. “What do you mean to do?”

  “Only what I have always done. I am dying now, again, after so many years. Let me do it alongside those who would shed innocent blood, even unknowingly. Enough of despair; I choose to fight, and I would have your blessing, if you would give it.”

  His words stirred her thoughts into fog. She felt the need to vomit, but fought it down.

  She has never given you her blessing. Zi’s thoughts. Whatever you do, you do alone.

  A pained look spread across Axerian’s face.

  “Very well,” he said. “Then this is our last farewell.” He hesitated, as though he meant to say more. Instead he gave her a lingering look before turning to stride from the chamber, leaving her trembling, weak with pain and fear, standing amid her piles of books and scrolls.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  SOUL OF THE WORLD,

  look out for

  KINGS OF THE WYLD

  by Nicholas Eames

  Glory never gets old.

  Clay Cooper and his band were once the best of the best, the most feared and renowned crew of mercenaries this side of the Heartwyld.

  Their glory days long past, the mercs have grown apart and grown old, fat, drunk, or a combination of the three. Then an ex-bandmate turns up at Clay’s door with a plea for help—the kind of mission that only the very brave or the very stupid would sign up for.

  It’s time to get the band back together.

  Chapter One

  A Ghost on the Road

  You’d have guessed from the size of his shadow that Clay Cooper was a bigger man than he was. He was certainly bigger than most, with broad shoulders and a chest like an iron-strapped keg. His hands were so large that most mugs looked like teacups when he held them, and the jaw beneath his shaggy brown beard was wide and sharp as a shovel blade. But his shadow, drawn out by the setting sun, skulked behind h
im like a dogged reminder of the man he used to be: great and dark and more than a little monstrous.

  Finished with work for the day, Clay slogged down the beaten track that passed for a thoroughfare in Coverdale, sharing smiles and nods with those hustling home before dark. He wore a Watchmen’s green tabard over a shabby leather jerkin, and a weathered sword in a rough old scabbard on his hip. His shield—chipped and scored and scratched through the years by axes and arrows and raking claws—was slung across his back, and his helmet … well, Clay had lost the one the Sergeant had given him last week, just as he’d misplaced the one given to him the month before, and every few months since the day he’d signed on to the Watch almost ten years ago now.

  A helmet restricted your vision, all but negated your hearing, and more often than not made you look stupid as hell. Clay Cooper didn’t do helmets, and that was that.

  “Clay! Hey, Clay!” Pip trotted over. The lad wore the Watchmen’s green as well, his own ridiculous head-pan tucked in the crook of one arm. “Just got off duty at the south gate,” he said cheerily. “You?”

  “North.”

  “Nice.” The boy grinned and nodded as though Clay had said something exceptionally interesting instead of having just mumbled the word north. “Anything exciting out there?”

  Clay shrugged. “Mountains.”

  “Ha! ‘Mountains,’ he says. Classic. Hey, you hear Ryk Yarsson saw a centaur out by Tassel’s farm?”

  “It was probably a moose.”