Blade and Soul

by C. M. Estopare

  Reine traipsed out of the back of the wagon, landing on her hands before springing to standing.

  “What's the problem? Why've we stopped?” she tried to put on her best western accent as she sauntered up to the front of the wagon. Gingerly, she placed an arm near the rider's seat and looked the border guards up and down.

  They wore the white flower of the Danaen Monarchy pinned to their black leather jerkins. Dusty white scarves covered their faces up to their noses.

  There were three of them. One stepped forward to address her, “All we need is information—we don't mean to trouble you.”

  “Just doing our jobs.” came a voice from behind him.

  Reine cocked her head and smiled sweetly, “We're traveling Aimme Troupe members. And, unfortunately, during the storm we got cut off from the main caravan. We're going to meet the rest of our troupe in the countryside—the Roselets. If you'd just let us pass...”

  The man pursed his lips before crossing his arms, “Then, let us inspect your wagon and you'll be on your way.”

  Opening her mouth, Reine stole a look at Florette, who reddened.

  “One of our members has the pox!” Reine blurted.

  “Then, you should have no problem...”

  The wagon jolted as Lucius slid out. Holding his stomach with both hands, he made a show of keeling over and vomiting up his breakfast.

  Above her, Florette gasped and pressed a hand to her lips. Beside her, the silver-haired agent choked down a chuckle.

  The border guard blanched. Took a step back.

  Reine grimaced before sighing. She mustered a smile, “Will you please let us go on, sir?”

  The three backed up, getting off the dirt road.

  “Are we...there yet?” Lucius moaned from the back of the wagon.

  “Just go—go!” one of the guards urged, shooing them.

  “I had a nephew who died from the pox—disgusting sickness. It's in the air—they probably all have it.”

  “Get—go on! We'll leave you be if you just get!”

  THE WOODEN WALLS OF the Roselet Estates rose like a strengthening tide.

  Reine walked beside the wagon as they entered the province. Old wooden homes and shops popped up on either side of them as they charged through the town. They moved towards the manor at the back of the thriving village, their pace slow. Men and women lined either side of the road, throwing red rose heads and lilac petals.

  Florette waved like a detached queen as the man at her side kept his eyes on the road.

  Reine's heart fluttered.

  “We have no time for this! Marceline is violently ill—we need to contact a healer!”

  Florette's smile cracked, “Have you forgotten how things work around here, little sister?”

  Reine's jaw clenched.

  “We show ourselves to our lady mother first. Until we present ourselves to her—nothing can be done!”

  “That isn't—,”

  Florette glared down, “It is how things work. You left the chateau, Reine. You are no longer the Odette—therefore you do not hold precedence!” her nostrils flared as she hissed. Sighing, she forced a crooked smile. It twisted her lips, “You've fallen from your perch, but you are unscathed. Others have cushioned the brunt of the blow for you, dear sister.”

  “You speak of Marceline.”

  “I speak of everyone. All of us.”

  The manor rose silently, like a corpse from the grave. Slate gray walls bore down on them, while crawling vines and twisted oak trees showered them with shade and the stark smell of smoke.

  Gates of black iron lay open, gaping like somber butterfly wings.

  There their stepmother stood, wearing her richest scarlet velvet. Blue eyes watched them cautiously. She was alone before the manor's vast cobbled courtyard.

  Alone, a rose stem twisting between her slender fingers. Rose thorns biting her skin.

  One by one, she pinched the thorns away.

  Ruby red lips slid into a viper's grin as they dropped to the cobbles at her feet.

  FOURTEEN

  Dimitri

  ...and the world continues on, Dimitri read, squinting his eyes against the scribbled letters upon the water soured parchment, but I say nay! 'An eye for an eye, and a life for a life...' as the saying goes. The Savatiers can disappear from sight—but they cannot escape the long arm of justice!

  A.R., was drawn in a soggy corner, The Iron Seneschal.

  Dimitri shook his head. Pocketed the letter.

  Three days.

  His brother wasn't even buried yet—and already, his family members were turning their minds to vengeance. To outright vigilantism. His father hoped to capture Ghyslain Savatier or somehow gain control over the rest of the Savatier brood. While, his mother and sisters communed with a djinn to figure out the whereabouts of the killer, the professed Slayer of Safrana.

  Three days.

  They were still in mourning, donning black, hefting heavy veils over their faces and heads. They were still in mourning—Loris's body currently sat upon a pyre waiting to be burned. Rain bloated his corpse. Squirming worms tore at it. Mange ravaged dogs stole soggy fingers and toes. The chateau guard did what they could to stop the deterioration—but there is only so much one could do against nature.

  It was time to let him go.

  But his mother and father wanted to find the killer first. They wanted Ghyslain to burn alongside him.

  Taking a sharp right in the sconce lit corridor of rain soaked stones and threadbare rugs, Dimitri chuckled to himself. The laughter caught in his throat. Choking him. His eyes watered.

  Five years I've been away and things still have not changed.

  All that mattered here was opportunity—and this was a big one. With the Savatiers out of the way, the Coutures could easily claim the duchess's cold throne. All they would have to do is walk up the aisles and sit.

  He could imagine Fontaine doing just that with Ghyslain's warm blood on his hands. That is all that truly mattered—not the fact that Loris died.

  They had a reason now to get rid of the biggest contenders for the glass throne and they weren't going to let Loris's death get in the way of that.

  People never change.

  Dimitri clenched his fists. Stopped at a chipped wooden door and exhaled, letting his fingers dangle.

  He could leave. Give up. Carry the memory of his brother with him forever as he set his pyre alight without the agreement of his father and mother. He could go back to the eastern citadel and continue work as the Vicar Seneschal. He didn't have to do this—he could leave. Never come back. Leave these opportunists behind.

  The throne did not satiate him. The notoriety. The millions of eyes always upon him, following him into his room at night.

  The voice. The single voice buzzing around in his head...

  Have you ever felt as if something were...missing?

  Dimitri bit his tongue. Raised a fist to knock.

  He couldn't run. He had a debt to pay to his brother, his family.

  He had to right things.

  Have you ever felt as if something were...

  “...missing?”

  Councilman Dubois stood before him, the old door open. Swung to the side.

  “Aye, we're expecting another guest.” a low rumble replied from well inside the dimly lit room, “Come, Dimitri.”

  The Councilman stepped aside, letting him pass.

  Dimitri entered. Behind him, the door creaked to a close.

  The chamber he entered was tiny. Well worn. Large square stones jutted in patterns upon the studded wall. At the center of the shadowy room sat a square table, a large patchwork map covering its light brown face. Circular paperweights kept the crinkled edges of the yellowed parchment down, while a candle in a bronzed boat sat within the map's heart. Flickering light washed the tiny room in gold. Orange.

  Fontaine's heavy face hovered at the table's head, while Arthur Roux's long features brightened as he moved towards the table's center. His heels
clicked.

  Dimitri approached them.

  “Dimitri.” came his uncle's wizened voice.

  From the head of the table, Dimitri's father offered a grunt.

  Formalities aside, they ignored him. His father was expecting someone else.

  Dimitri stood at the table's side, arm's crossed. Blood roared in his ears. His skin crawled, sizzling beneath the heavy sleeves of his overcoat. In the few hours after Loris's death, he had come down with a fever and it seemed it wasn't leaving him anytime soon.

  His tongue became cotton in his mouth.

  Dimitri swore it was this place—the chateau. With Loris gone, all he wanted to do was leave. Leave and forget. He hadn't been given any time to mourn, not truly. After questioning Lucie, she dragged him away and forced him to stand guard before the door of their mother's apartments. She never answered his questions—none of them did. And when he pressed, his mother immediately chalked his “probing” questions up to grief.

  Yet, being a Couture meant building walls around sorrow. It meant, ignoring it. Seeing the opportunities in awful situations.

  It meant being a vulture.

  The door at the front of the chamber flew open. A hooded figure entered, silver gleaming at the thick belt around his waist.

  “And he comes at last.” Fontaine drawled, slapping his palms on the table, “You are only here at my wife's behest, you understand that, Mercenary?”

  The mercenary flashed a smile beneath his low hanging cowl. White teeth gleamed in the firelight, “'Course, M'sieur.”

  The man's accent marked him as a northerner.

  “And your name?”

  The man snorted, “There's power in names.”

  The firelight crept up Fontaine's jowls, climbing up his cheeks to rest in the hollows. The air became hot. Dimitri forced himself to breathe.

  Silence as the entire table waited for the mercenary to introduce himself. The man clicked his teeth together. Showed a crocodile's grin.

  Dimitri huffed, a nameless northerner.

  Fontaine drank the hooded mercenary in. Shook his head and sighed, “Very well. You know why I've gathered you here, Monsieurs.”

  The men exchanged nods. Dimitri yanked at his collar.

  “Ghyslain Savatier is gone. His daughters have been spirited away—most likely to the Roselets. The Ruling Council does nothing but sit on their hands—,”

  “There has been no report of the Savatiers actually arriving at the Roselets.” Councilman Dubois piped, a bony finger pressed against his lips. “Without evidence, we wait.”

  “While Ghyslain Savatier gets farther and farther away from Safrana?” Fontaine spat, his voice a rough hiss, “Why let him leave?”

  “My sources tell me that he attempted to enter the eastern citadel—,”

  “Because he was smuggled,” the Mercenary said, throwing up his hands, “it should be obvious. He was smuggled out of the damned city.”

  Silence.

  “I control the city guard. The flow and obstruction of goods. Nothing gets in or out without my seal. Are you accusing me of devaluing my post?” Arthur Roux hissed, narrowing his eyes, “He could have never...”

  “And yet he has.”

  Spikes grew in Dimitri's veins as his blood boiled. He shouldn't be here—he wasn't ready. Not for this—not to speak over and over about the man who murdered his brother—his only brother.

  He could throw his head back. Scream. He could be a child again and let his emotions flow forth.

  The scar upon his face throbbed. Burned.

  Dimitri winced.

  “And how would you know this?”

  Fontaine rammed both hands into the table. Took a step back and clasped his hands behind his back, “Did your kind do this? Smuggle a known murderer out of Safrana? Out of the reach of the law?”

  “We won't get anywhere arguing, Fontaine. He is here to help.” Councilman Dubois whispered.

  “And yet—I've begun to believe that he's here to gather information for a known murderer!”

  Dimitri wrung his hands, his temperature rising. His father wasn't ready either. Ready to speak about Loris's death—ready to imagine that...perhaps his murderer was gone. Free.

  And maybe Ghyslain would never be seen again.

  At least, not by them.

  Perhaps his father wasn't a heartless opportunist. Maybe he truly wanted to capture his eldest son's killer.

  “I understand.” Fontaine sighed, pacing from one corner of the room and turning, “Excuse my paranoia, but we need Ghyslain's head as proof to the Ruling Council that he is dead and his house holds no rights to the throne.”

  Councilman Dubois inclined his head, “Of course, Monsieur.”

  Perhaps.

  Dimitri shook his head. Silent for so long. Heat piling behind his eyes as he kept from crying out. He choked his wrist, skin sizzled beneath his grip. Pale flesh burned.

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  He jumped. Slammed his palm to the table. White steam burst from beneath his hand. Swirling. Orange flame coming to life beneath and around his skin.

  Arthur Roux tripped. Snatching his hand from Dimitri's shoulder, he muttered curses beneath his breath.

  Fontaine threw a sidelong gaze over his shoulder, his jaw agape as he eyed the flame and brought his gaze to his son.

  The Mercenary drew his sword, “Magic?” he hissed, “Impossible—Fates save us—impossible!”

  Dimitri slid his hand from the table, eyes wild. Mouth salivating. He stumbled, watched more fire erupt from his palm as blood deafened him. Roaring in his ears like the flame growing before him.

  Black smoke choked the tiny room. Blinded them all like a sudden sweep of wind.

  Dimitri heard wheezing. Cursing.

  How could he have done this?

  It isn't real—it isn't possible.

  He knew he could control his body temperature—make his skin scalding hot or icy cold. But this—he didn't know he could do about this.

  He spun on his heel.

  They'd die in here—the flame would consume them alive. It crackled behind him as orange became red, the fire swallowing the table as easily as a snake swallows an egg.

  He'd need to leave—gather help. Water.

  He needed to find the door.

  Dimitri crouched, still holding his smoking hand. He stood—dove through the black fog.

  A bony chest rammed into his cheek. Halted him with outstretched arms.

  Councilman Dubois' ragged face appeared through the smoke. Dimitri met mismatched eyes, one green, one blue.

  “You can't run.” he choked, his thin lips stretching into a taut grin, “You know what to do, Avaledd. You can't hide anymore.”

  And the councilman stood, barring his way. Staring at him with those devilish eyes.

  Avaledd?

  Dimitri turned.

  “You know what to do.”

  Did he?

  Did he ever know what to do?

  His scar throbbed. Smoke raked at his throat.

  Loris could fix this. He was always the bright one.

  Dimitri watched the room burn. Listened to the scuffling footsteps of his father and uncle as they tried to avoid the crackling fire and roaring flame. Smoke obscured everything. A roiling cloud of thick soot blanketed the room like powdered snow.

  Would it be wrong to let them burn?

  He had already lost a brother—would he lose an uncle and father too all because of his...

  If he could create it—he could destroy it. But how?

  Sprinting towards the heart of the flame, he batted it. Scooped it with his hands and earned reddened burns. Blew at it with his mouth, his nose.

  His heart raced. Soared. The roaring fire in his ears went silent.

  Flame flickered as he inhaled. Reaching towards his nostrils, his mouth. Some entered him. Crawling down his throat to fester in his belly.

  Councilman Dubois...laughed.

  Was this a fever dream?

&nbs
p; Dimitri inhaled again—and the flame came. Entering him like air. Ripping at his throat, it entered his belly.

  He took a chance. Inhaled again and swallowed a third of the fire up.

  The smoke thinned. He saw his father's face, his uncle's twisted brow.

  Dimitri held up a hand. Motioned towards the door at his back.

  But they refused to move.

  Fire crackled before him. Dimitri's heart leaped—soared into his throat before he inhaled again. Swallowing more of the flame. Bringing the amazing feeling back.

  His father watched in horror. His uncle, awe.

  The mercenary raised his sword, crossing himself.

  As Dimitri stood and spun on his heel. The fire gone. The smoke dissipating.

  With his heart in his throat, he ran.

  HAVE YOU EVER FELT as if something were...missing?

  He made it to the western ramparts. Slapped his palms to the stone balustrade and caught his breath.

  White steam left his lips. Coiled out from his ears.

  His skin was on fire.

  His belly rolled.

  Have you ever felt as if—

  “Yes!” he called out—shaking his head violently. Closing his eyes, “My entire life—yes!”

  What happened in that chamber shouldn't have been possible. Fire? Humans haven't been able to call upon the elements for decades! Decades!

  No one possessed the gift of magic—not anymore.

  No human.

  He was human.

  Have you ever felt as if something were...missing?

  The voice resounded around him. Swallowing him up in a circular torrent of wind.

  It was outside of his head now. Floating on the air. Controlling the wind. That voice...!

  Dunstan Riche.

  A man sighed to his right and Dimitri flinched.

  The vulture-like councilman stood beside him. Looked at him. Mismatched eyes met his own. A devilish smile threatened to break his face, “Dimitri.” he murmured, inclining his head, “No need to hide anymore.”

  “I'm not hiding anything!” he hadn't known what happened in that room—but whatever caused the flame to erupt from his hand...

  Councilman Dubois' skin sagged. Shriveled from his bony body like a snake giving up its skin.

  Dimitri's stomach tumbled. Fire gored his insides, smashing spears through him. Burning his bones and muscle. His heart fell—dropping in his stomach like a heavy stone. The amazing feeling of swallowing flame sourly gone as his back elongated. Throwing back his head, he howled. Slapped his palms to the balustrade and braced himself.