Legacy of Souls

by D. Wallace Peach

  He’d encountered Raze on several occasions, and his opinion of the man changed with the season. If the freeholder intended to stand up as a person of strong convictions, he needed to learn how to wield a blade. His fair halfbreed pelt had paled to the color of sun-bleached linen.

  A soft knock replied to Danzell’s initial rap on the weathered wood. Danzell echoed the simple rhythm, and the door creaked open. Inside, a wrinkled woman bearing a lantern squinted in the light. She frowned at the crowd but spoke no challenge, and Danzell led them into what appeared to be abandoned catacombs.

  Daylight vanished, and Johzar’s eyes required a few heartbeats to adjust, a disadvantage he’d remember. A second lantern glowed from a hook, and the interior arches cast shadows that left the vaults in solid darkness. He caught a glint of steel, a movement along the chamber’s black borders. Danzell’s warning acquired weight, the woman more intriguing by the moment.

  He breathed in the cool mustiness of damp soil though the walls and floor were constructed of stone. Danzell led them through the barren space to a back door that unlocked into more accommodating quarters—if he ignored the empty crypts lining the walls. The room was well lit between its columns and furnished with simple furniture. A granite altar constructed for ceremonial fires squatted below a vent, its ash cold.

  “You may leave us,” Danzell said to the matron who’d admitted them.

  “Beware of your certainty, Lady Danzell. Even the wisest err.”

  “And the wise appreciate when risks must be undertaken.”

  The old woman nodded and retired through a rear door.

  “A dwelling among the dead.” Johzar strolled to a side table set with wooden cups and a jug. He sniffed the contents and dribbled water over a cut on his hand, letting the thinned blood trickle to the floor. “Aside from a tomb, what is this place?”

  “Not what, but who.” Danzell took a seat on a wooden chair and rolled her head, working out whatever kinks or tension she’d collected during their fight. “We’re a conclave dedicated to the preservation of wisdom. The future of our world gathered not in the static pages of time-bound books, but in the contemporary and fluid stores of our minds.”

  “Ah.” Johzar raised an eyebrow. “I remember our introduction in the Temple. You questioned the sanity of swallowing multiple souls, and yet it appears you do the same.”

  Raze sank into a chair and raked a hand across his scalp. “A whole conclave of soul…collectors.”

  She nodded. “An adequate description.”

  Johzar leaned against a column and studied the woman. In his few encounters with her, she’d fascinated him—not with her Ezari beauty, though she possessed an abundance of the qualities defining the term. Her appeal lay elsewhere, in her distinctiveness—the cropped hair, the lack of finery, her independence, and…discernment. She’d swallowed multiple souls and hadn’t gone mad.

  And why was Raze in her company? There was more to the freeholder than he realized.

  “I’m grateful for your assistance, Johzar.” She met his eyes. “Though I wonder at the coincidence surrounding my good fortune.”

  “I’ve no quarrel with you or your sister,” he replied. “If I’d ordered Draeva to pin you with an arrow, she wouldn’t have missed.” Draeva stood by the door like a sentry and grinned at the compliment.

  “I assume you’re here to compete in the games?” Danzell asked the archer.

  “I’m here to win the games,” Draeva replied.

  “The question then is who desires me—or Lord Anvrell—in a grave?”

  Raze tucked his chin to his chest. “I’m no threat to anyone. I’m not an heir, and I’ve no wealth. I’m a horse breeder.”

  “One pleading eloquently to my sister to end the practice of bondage. Not everyone approves of that course.” Danzell tilted her head toward Johzar.

  “I wouldn’t have missed,” Draeva repeated.

  Johzar eyed Raze and shrugged. Not that he didn’t care or want to understand the argument, but Ezar would never agree to an end to slavery. The empire’s entire economy depended on a structure that enriched the slaveholders at the expense of their slaves. And the slaveholders wrote the rules. “He’s right, Danzell. The logical target was you. You’re the heir should anything befall your sister.”

  She tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair.

  “Your brother, Kyzan, has the most to gain,” Raze said.

  “Only if my sister dies as well.”

  Her fingers ceased their drumming.

  ~

  Death rarely surrendered without a fight, and Johzar figured a few killers still haunted Tegir’s upper estates. He accompanied Danzell through the back alleys and quieter lanes. Draeva meandered behind, ahead, around, arrow nocked but resting loosely in her bow.

  At the end of their discussion, Danzell had sent Raze on his way. A touch of color had returned to his face, and his breath had relaxed. He’d bowed and departed, anxious to rejoin his brother. Johzar trusted he’d keep Danzell’s confidences. Respect or fear would clamp his mouth shut; it hardly mattered which.

  “This may not be the work of my brother.” Danzell walked beside Johzar, her natural stride shortened to match his limping gait. He was far from hobbled, but running uphill would reap a penalty of stiffness and pain.

  “Your brother is an ambitious man.”

  “Do you know something or merely guess based on your dislike of him?”

  His eyes swept the steep road ahead. “What makes you think I dislike him?”

  “He is a hard man to like.”

  Johzar chuckled. “True. And he is indirect in his dealings. Allusions and hints, innocent inquiries, innuendo.”

  “I’ll warn my sister, but I doubt she’ll temper her behavior.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m not inclined to hide.” She arched an eyebrow at him before swinging her attention back to the road. “Sajem is a blight on the Vales. He’s a threat to them and, by association, to Ezar. His attempt on Lord Rydan’s life was brazen and foolhardy. Does he kill on someone’s orders?”

  “He’s not my responsibility.”

  “Yet he jeopardizes your livelihood.”

  “I won’t start a war with him, Danzell.” The assertion wasn’t entirely true, but how he responded to Sajem would be on his own terms and was no one’s concern but his.

  She slanted her eyes his way. “Are you a coward?”

  He took the bait and smiled. “Like your companion Raze?”

  “Do I sense a breath of jealousy?” She chuckled. “I’m flattered.”

  “Mere curiosity.”

  “Hm. I don’t imagine he’s a coward. He traveled the Shattered Sea to confront the Empress of Ezar on an issue with no bearing on himself but on the people of his land. He spoke the truth of his convictions about what is right and wrong.”

  “He’s afraid of death.”

  “Or inexperienced.”

  Johzar grunted, conceding the possibility.

  “Or he finds killing morally repugnant.”

  “I’m not afraid to kill when it’s necessary.”

  “And for that, I’m thankful, Johzar.” She gazed up at the palace rising over the rooftops, her graceful throat exposed. “But my question wasn’t in the context of killing. My question regarded Sajem.”

  “I told you, I’m not afraid of death.”

  She smirked. “You interpret my meaning with a man’s perspective. I shall be specific. Are you a coward when it comes to standing up for what you know is wrong and right?”

  “Nae.” He wasn’t a coward, and yet what stopped him? Why the delay? Especially with a man who rode his madness on a rampage through the land. “When I met you in the Temple, Sajem was purchasing souls. It’s the source of his madness.”

  “I gathered so.”

  “This conclave of yours includes others who swallow multiple souls. How is it you’ve avoided the same sickness?”

  “A simplistic explanation perhaps, Johzar, but we swa
llow wise souls, as many as we can. They’re easy to assimilate, rarely plagued by violent trauma or moral quandaries. They haven’t become inured to brutality or comfortable with all the blindness and squirming it requires.”

  She stopped and reached into her tunic drawing out two pendants, one dull, which he assumed belonged to her; the other glowing, a soul housed inside. “This one I’d planned to swallow with the coming of autumn. I gift it to you instead.” She lifted the cord over her head and held the dangling pendant before him.

  He dipped his chin. “I thank you for the generous offer, Danzell, but it’s doubtful I would ever swallow its contents. I’ve lived almost three decades with no one’s mind but my own, and I’m not one to opt for irreversible risks.”

  “You are an unusual man, Johzar.” She pressed the pendant into his palm. “Consider my offer. Wisdom is a precious gift. That said, I’ll take no offense if you decide against it.”

  Draeva ambled down the lane, bow at her side. “I found your guards, Lady Danzell. I don’t think there’s any question you were the target.”

  “Where are they?” Johzar asked.

  “Up there, dragged into an alley.” Draeva canted her head up the hill. “Their throats were slit.”

  ~12~

  Blood would spill before the morning arced into noon.

  Raze sat in the stands of the Ezalion Challenge with Nallea and Benjmur, the previous day’s encounter on the hillside trapped inside him and pacing like a wild beast. Danzell’s secret conclave never passed his lips, but he’d whispered to Terrill about the attack and their rescue by slavers. Terrill had fumed but couldn’t complain with much vigor since Raze owed his life to Johzar’s sword.

  Raze sighed, his eyes on the arena’s unfolding pageantry though his concentration was stretched as thin as his nerves. He was desperate to go home—to dodge the intrigue and politics, the glory of flashing steel, and the bloody permanence of death—but neither Terrill nor Azalus wanted to miss their chances to compete.

  And the matter of bondage hovered over his head like a Ravenwood storm. Ezalion awaited his reply, and in truth, if he left without concluding his argument, he’d have wasted the entire trip.

  “This is impressive, don’t you think?” Nallea perched on a cushion beside him. “These are wonderful seats.”

  “We’re honored guests of Governor Kyzan,” Benjmur reminded her.

  “I’ll be certain to thank him.” She gripped Raze’s hand and squeezed, a giddy excitement quivering through her fingers.

  Her assessment of the arena wasn’t mistaken. It surpassed anything east of the sea, a colossal stone structure with three tiers, each separated by wide landings where slaves had erected pavilions for wealthier spectators and their guests. A narrow aisleway behind the tents provided servants and slaves easy access when catering to the whims of their masters.

  Raze, Nallea, and her father occupied seats between the first and second tiers, surcoats donned, their status affording them a linen canopy to protect them from the Ezarine sun. To Raze’s right, a contingent of men and women from the southern province of Yozar stroked spotted dogs on chains and fed them from trays of raw meat.

  The morning’s competition pitted participants in bare-handed bouts, a sport in which Raze boasted some familiarity. A ring of staves strung with a rope defined the competition’s border and touching that rope equaled defeat. The other way to lose entailed getting pounded to the ground, but only if a hand touched the dirt. If blood was all that stuck to a competitor’s fingers, the fight continued.

  When the combat started, Raze revised his claim of experience. He’d never seen fighting of this nature before. The two women in the circle rarely made a fist. Instead, they used their feet and forearms, strikes landing with the heel or edge of the hand. Falls resembled curled rolls, hands tucked to prevent a touch. He’d have lasted a quick count of five against the worst of them.

  Across the field, indigo banners flapped at the corners of the royal canopies. The Empress basked beneath the central pavilion, Danzell and Kyzan flanking her in shady tents of their own. Below the canopied tier, stone benches brimmed with common folk and brightly dressed foreigners from the far reaches of the known world. People of every shade and proportion shouted and cheered as their favorite contenders vied in the field. All in all, he might have enjoyed the events’ strangeness and excitement—if his mind weren’t obsessed with escape.

  “You’re so quiet, Raze.” Nallea tilted her head, eyes brimming with concern. “You seem distracted.”

  “It’s the noise and crowds.” He returned her smile. “It’s a marked contrast to the freehold.”

  “Terrill told us what happened yesterday,” she whispered. “It’s unsettling.”

  He nodded, though “unsettling” proved too tame a word. He’d witnessed violent death before, seen bodies bloodied in battle, the gruesome remains of Mirelle after she was hanged, and the slaver gutted by Talaith. This felt similar, even though the attack was purely political. Maybe that’s what bothered him about bondage, a human life reduced to a thing and inconsequential in the pursuit of other aims: wealth, power, pleasure, obedience, advantage.

  The crowd cheered, yanking his attention back to the field. A new pair of combatants swaggered across the dirt and ducked into the ring. They made swift work of their fight, the smaller of the pair kicking the larger in the teeth with his heel and tipping him into the rope. The crowd booed, and money changed hands. The next contestants entered the ring.

  Nallea gasped, groaned, and clapped in turn, depending on her father for company since Raze struggled to break out of his ruminating silence. The attack on Danzell niggled at his thoughts, his worry less for her than at the revelation of his ineptness at protecting himself or anyone else. What if slavers descended on the freehold? He could punch, swing a staff, or throw rocks, but those defenses would falter when facing assailants armed with swords. And those strikes rarely killed. That was the rub—even when faced with death, he’d resisted the need to kill. Who would defend them? Samoth with his old sword and warrior souls? Vax with a brush-blade?

  The first round of bouts concluded, and the bruised winners paraded around the arena floor. Spectators cheered and completed wagers for the next morning when the competition would continue with new pairings.

  Slaves dragged eight sets of straw bales to the field’s center and draped them with painted targets bearing the outline of a man, vital organs marked with red. They secured the corners while others set distance markers. The crowd stomped their feet as the competitors entered carrying wooden spears marked with rings of lurid color.

  “There’s Terrill,” Nallea cried, pointing at the field. The guardsman sauntered out, lean and lithe compared to the brutish strength of the other men. “Will you wager with me?”

  Raze glanced at her, the woman vibrating with excitement. “I’ll wager he’s going to lose.”

  She frowned. “Well, of course, he’ll lose, but shouldn’t we be more specific? We can’t wager the same thing.”

  “All right.” Raze chuckled and dug a copper chit from his pocket. “I’ll bet he makes it to sixty paces.”

  “That’s not very far.” Nallea bit her lip and studied the field.

  “Ai, it is,” Raze countered. “Especially if he needs to hit the target’s body.”

  “Fine. I’ll wager he reaches the seventy-pace mark.” She opened her embroidered purse and plucked out a chit.

  The challengers lined up. Ezari men positioned around the arena explained the event, their voices booming in unison. Men would compete first, women second. Judges required a hit to the body for a contestant to advance. For the first three rounds, the rules permitted each man one throw, and after that, advancement was based on the best of two.

  The thirty-pace round passed quickly as did the next two, forty competitors reduced to twenty-seven with Terrill among them. Raze grinned, his long-time friend’s skill evident in his approach and release, the smooth arc of his spear. Terrill made it
look effortless, graceful compared to the barreling strikes of his opponents.

  At forty-five paces the competition slowed down, due not only to the additional attempt but the greater concentration. At fifty-five paces, Terrill backed up and hefted his spear, his focus quieting the stands. He ran for the line, turned sideways for a few strides, and leapt with his throw. The spear flew and stuck, shaving the edge of a red heart. He raised his fists in delight. The crowd cheered and stomped.

  “He’s at sixty.” Raze held up his copper chit. “Two rounds and this is yours.”

  Nallea’s hands knotted in her lap as if the entire Anvrell fortune hung in the balance. “He’ll do it.”

  At this distance, the competitors all possessed sufficient skills, but strength became a significant factor as bodies wore out. Twelve men lined up behind the sixty-pace mark. Terrill’s first spear suffered a slight wobble in the air, and it planted itself in the ground like a flagpole. Desperation seemed to drive his second throw more than talent, and it struck within the target's body, but barely.

  Nallea bolted up, biting her thumbnail as the men moved back to the next line. If Terrill stuck one of his throws, she’d win her copper chit.

  The first man up, a muscled westerner with a ruddy beard, hurled his spear. It shot forward, horizontal to the ground, and the sharp tip impaled the target in the groin. The crowd groaned in sympathy while the man grinned and bowed, advancing without need of a second throw.

  Terrill scratched the scruff on his jaw, hefted his weapon, and tried to barrel in a shot. The spear slid under the target, a miss. “A misjudgment.” Raze rose to stand beside Nallea. “He’s tired.”

  “One more,” she said. “After that, I don’t care.”

  The rest of the lineup threw, half of them satisfied and the other half needing their second spear to advance. Most of the crowd stood, the field narrowing, and the end of the competition in sight.