The Third Soul Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “A successful day, my lord domn,” said Rikon as they walked alongside the wagon. “Truly, I did not think we would do so well.”

  “Bah,” said Luthair. “You forget. Our lord domn is almost quite as clever as I am.”

  “Now there’s a compliment,” said Corthain. The last visit of the day had taken them to the wealthiest district of Araspan, located at the foot of the mountain spur supporting the Ring. Dozens of towers crowded the space, each more ornate and ostentatious than the last. The sun was slipping down behind the mountain, and shadows lay thick across the entire district. Orange-clad slaves hurried back and forth, doing their masters’ errands.

  Quite a few Jurgur slaves, come to think of it. Not surprising, given how the slave traders had descended upon the shattered remnants of the Jurgur horde after Dark River…

  “Huh,” said Rikon, looking to the side. “You’d think they would clean up the rubble.”

  “Rubble?” said Corthain, snapping out of his reverie.

  “Aye,” said Rikon. “That tower, over there. It’s fallen to pieces.”

  “Not fallen,” said Corthain, memories welling up. “Blasted.”

  The broken tower stood some distance away, jutting from the earth like a lightning-struck tree. Most of the towers had lush grounds, with bushes and trimmed gardens circling their base. This tower had gardens of blackened rubble, twisted steel, and scorched ground. It had been twelve years, Corthain thought. Twelve years, and still no living thing grew on the broken rubble of Paulus’s tower. It was as if his magic had blighted the very ground itself.

  Luthair frowned. “Is that…”

  “It is,” said Corthain. “That was Paulus’s tower.”

  Corthain noted that the slaves took care to avoid the place. No doubt it still had an evil reputation, even after all these years.

  “Right there,” said Corthain, pointing at the street. “I tried to dissuade Solthain. He wouldn’t listen. And there.” He pointed at the steps leading to the rubble-choked archway. “Solthain called for Paulus to come out and surrender himself. Paulus answered by loosing his ghouls upon us. We fought our way into the tower. The balcony…there…” Corthain frowned. The balcony was gone. No doubt it had been destroyed with the top two-thirds of the tower. “When I woke up, I was lying on the ground, over there. The Magisters struck then. They ripped the tower to pieces. It would have killed me, if that boulder hadn’t landed just so.” He gestured at a boulder jutting from the barren ground. The side facing the ruined tower looked as if it had melted. “It shielded me from the fire.”

  The memories tore at him, sharp as any knife. The screams of his men as the ghouls and Paulus’s spells ripped them apart. Solthain shouting in defiant challenge, his voice disappearing in the roar of magical flames. Lying in agony amidst the rubble, waiting for a death that never came. His father’s rage and contempt, and the tribunal before the Magisters. And the Swords escorting him to a ship.

  “My lord?”

  Corthain blinked. “What?”

  “Perhaps we should move on,” said Luthair. “I’m sure you have better things to do than to stare at some old ruins.”

  “Yes…you’re right,” said Corthain. “Let’s go.”

  The wagons rumbled back into motion, and Corthain walked alongside them, hand squeezed into a fist. It had been twelve years. He had seen a lot of things since then, some of it worse than the horrors Paulus had unleashed. Yet sometimes, when he thought of Solthain, the grief came anew. If only he had gotten Solthain to listen. If only.

  He thought of Thalia then. They had been close, once, though she blamed him for Solthain’s death. But what had happened to her? Had she died in the Testing?

  He made a decision.

  “Rikon,” said Corthain. “Take the wagons back to the warehouse. I’ll be along shortly. Luthair, come with me. The streets of Araspan aren’t safe at night for one man alone.”

  Luthair grinned. “More memories, my lord?”

  “Something like that,” said Corthain.

  ###

  He came to the tower of House Kalarien as the twilight became night. Spelllamps lit the street, at least here in the wealthier parts of Araspan, and illuminated House Kalarien’s ancestral tower. It was one of the oldest in the city, two hundred feet of polished red granite. Statues stood in niches in the walls, depicting Kalariens who had done great things in centuries past. Acres of trimmed gardens surrounded the tower, and Swords in Kalarien cloaks of green and black patrolled the grounds.

  “So,” said Luthair. “We’re just going to drop in for a visit with your father?”

  “No,” said Corthain. “I’d prefer not to see my father at all. I…merely want to know what become of my sister.”

  “To pay her a visit?” said Luthair.

  “No,” said Corthain. “She blamed me for Solthain’s death. I doubt she wants to see me. Besides, if she became an Adept, no doubt she is as cruel and arrogant as the rest of them. And if she didn’t survive the Testing…I simply want to know what happened to her.”

  He stopped before the gates to the grounds. A Sword stood there, hand hovering just near the sheathed blade in his belt.

  “Aye?” said the Sword, eyes glinting behind his helm. “You have business here?”

  “This is the tower of House Kalarien?” said Corthain.

  “So you’re new to the city, then?” said the Sword. He seemed to puff up a little. “Aye, this is the tower of Arthain Kalarien, Magister of the Conclave and Lord Governor of the city. You must indeed be new, if you don’t know the name.”

  “Does Lord Arthain have any children?” said Corthain.

  “He does, two sons…or he did, I suppose,” said the Sword. “The eldest fell in battle some twelve years ago. The second was banished for cowardice…but have you heard the name of Corthain Kalarien?”

  Luthair's lips twitched. “You know, I think I have.”

  “I was at the Battle of Dark River,” said the Sword. “Part of the deputation the Conclave sent to fight the barbarians. The Jurgur scum smashed our host, and would have won, but Lord Corthain took command, and won a great victory.” The Sword shrugged. “Hard to see how such a man could be a coward.”

  Corthain swallowed. “You mentioned only sons. Does Lord Arthain have any daughters?”

  The Sword nodded. “Just one. Thalia. An Adept of the Conclave, like her father.”

  “She is?” said Corthain. He was astonished at the relief he felt. Thalia had not perished in the Testing. She had survived.

  “She is. And…just between you and me, she’s something of a…character,” the Sword, grinning behind his helm. “Drives her father wild, she does. Not a bad sort, for an Adept. Though it’s not my place to say so, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Corthain. “That’s all I wished to know. Thank you.”

  He turned to go.

  “Divine have mercy,” said the Sword, sudden awe in his voice.

  Corthain grimaced.

  “You’re…you’re Corthain Kalarien, aren’t you?”

  “That he is,” said Luthair. “Shouldn’t you be saluting or something?”

  “My lord,” said the stunned Sword. “It…let me just say it is an honor to meet you. We would have all perished at Dark River, if you had not taken command.”

  “Many brave men perished at Dark River,” said Corthain.

  “Have you come to claim your inheritance?” said the Sword. “You are Magister Arthain’s heir, now. And…whatever happened in the past, surely the Hammer of Dark River would be welcome among the lords of the city.”

  “No,” said Corthain. “I am here on business, nothing more, and I wish to leave in a few days. I would prefer if you mentioned my presence to no one.”

  The Sword gaped at him. No way the man would keep quiet after this.

  Corthain sighed. “You may mention my presence to my father, if you wish. Whether he wishes to speak to me or not…that is up to him.”

  “Aye, my lord,” said t
he Sword, banging a fist against his armored chest.

  Corthain nodded, thanked the man, and left.

  “That was a mistake,” he muttered as they walked back to the Silver Coin Inn.

  Luthair blinked. “You don’t think your father will have you arrested, do you?”

  “No,” said Corthain. He hesitated. “I think.”

  Luthair sighed. “Ever the optimist, my lord domn.”

  “But he hated me twelve years ago, and I doubt his enmity has wavered in the slightest,” said Corthain. “Once he realizes why I am here, he may forbid Salorin to buy the wines of Moiria simply out of spite.”

  “Ah,” said Luthair, scratching at his jaw. "I can relate."

  "You can?"

  “Well, my father was a drunk.”

  Corthain blinked. “Was he?” Luthair never spoke of his family.

  “And a mean drunk, too,” said Luthair. “Liked to smack us around when he was in his cups. Well, one day when I was twelve or thirteen, I decided that I’d had enough. So I waited until he passed out, then I tied him to the pigpen fence. Took all his clothes, too, and then I left. Never once looked back.”

  “I see,” said Corthain. “You robbed him, too, didn’t you?”

  “Of course!” Luthair looked offended. “A man’s got his pride, my lord domn. Besides, it wasn’t as if I would stick around to collect my inheritance, anyway. So I took it with me.” His tone grew thoughtful. “I wonder what happened to him, sometimes. The farm was near Tarrenheim, and the Jurgurs sacked that country good and hard. He’s probably dead, along with all my kin.” He spat on the street. “Not that I ever cared a damn about them, the grasping scoundrels.”

  “So you’re saying I should put my father behind me, is that it?” said Corthain.

  “What? No, no,” said Luthair. “I’m saying you should rob the old bastard and leave him tied up to a pigpen.”

  Corthain snorted. “I confess, I had never thought of that.”

  ###

  The letter arrived at dawn the next morning.

  Corthain had just finished the Forms when a knock came at his door. A messenger wearing the colors of House Kalarien entered, bearing a scroll imprinted with the seal of Magister Arthain.

  The note was written in High Imperial, and curt. It requested Corthain’s presence at midday, and offered no other details.

  Corthain sighed. He scribbled a brief response, indicating that he would come, and handed the note back to the messenger, who bowed and departed. Corthain stared after him, hand twitching to his sword hilt.

  He doubted the meeting with his father would be pleasant. And there was no telling how the old man would react once he learned that Corthain had become a Callian domn.

  The people of Moiria needed this wine trade with Araspan. He hoped he had not just destroyed their chances.

  Chapter 6 - The Testing

  The astraljump ended, and Rachaelis found herself in a circular chamber with no doors and no windows. Niches lined the walls, and in each niche stood a mirror. Rachaelis turned in a slow circle, saw herself reflected over and over again.

  Did she really look so scrawny and pale?

  She completed her circle, and Magister Mauriana stood before her, expression stern.

  “The first trial of the Testing, Initiate,” said Mauriana. “Use the magic of illusion. Disguise yourself as me. Perfectly.”

  That didn’t seem so hard. Or dangerous.

  Rachaelis lifted her hand, blue light flaring around her fingers. She held an image of the Magister in her mind, precise in every detail. Then she released the spell, and the energy crackled around her. She shaped it with her mind, forcing the power into the image she desired.

  When she looked into the mirrors, Mauriana's face stared back at her. The same hair, the same eyes, the same black-trimmed red robe with the black stole. A pity the clothes were only illusionary. It was cold in here. Rachaelis frowned, adjusted her hair, and faced Mauriana.

  The older woman walked in a circle around her, examining the illusion.

  “Adequate,” said Mauriana. “You may release the spell.”

  Rachaelis did so, and the image of the stately Magister in the mirror vanished, replaced by a pale, shivering young woman.

  “You pass the first trial,” said Mauriana, pointing. One of the mirrors vanished, revealing a stone arch. “You may proceed to the next.”

  Rachaelis nodded and walked to the arch.

  Again an astraljump spell took her, and the silver light devoured her.

  When it cleared, she found herself in another domed chamber, identical to the first. Instead of mirrors, though, in each of the twelve niches stood a red-robed Magister.

  In fact, the same Magister.

  Rachaelis turned in a circle. Every last Magister in the niches looked identical, the same gray hair, the same close-cropped beard, the same narrowed eyes. Illusion, then. An image fashioned out of magical power and nothing else.

  “The second trial of the Testing, Initiate,” said each of the identical Magisters, speaking in unison. “I am projecting eleven images of myself. I stand in one of the niches. Determine what is illusion and what is real. Find me.”

  Rachaelis bit her lip, thinking. To simply walk up and touch the illusions would do no good; a skilled Adept could fashion illusions capable of fooling all five senses. But an illusion was only a spell like any other.

  She lifted her hand and worked the spell to sense the presence of magical energies. She swept her hand in a circle, her magical senses probing, searching. The illusions in the niche brushed against her senses, and she turned, seeking out the real Magister…

  But every Magister in the niche was an illusion.

  Rachaelis frowned. All of them were illusionary? Perhaps the Magister had disguised his presence somehow, made his real form register as an illusion to Rachaelis’s spell? But that would take a complicated spell, one even a Magister's skill could not conceal. Or…

  A tight smile came over Rachaelis’s face.

  Or it was a simple trick.

  She recast the spell to sense magic, this time widening the focus to include the entire chamber. Again she felt the spells powering the illusionary images in the stone niches. But this time she felt another spell, towards the center of the chamber, one subtler and fainter.

  She walked to the source of the spell, put out her hand, and touched a man's shoulder. An instant later the images in the niches vanished, and the Magister appeared before Rachaelis as he released his spell of invisibility.

  “I found you,” said Rachaelis.

  “Very good,” said the Magister. “Most of the Initiates assume that I am standing in one of the niches. How did you know?”

  “You lied to me. An illusion is only a spell to trick the senses. A lie is an illusion to the mind,” said Rachaelis.

  “Yes,” said the old man. He seemed pleased. “You have passed the second trial.” He pointed, and silver flight flickered in one of the niches. “You may proceed to the next.”

  Rachaelis strode into the niche.

  Again an astraljump took her.

  When the silver light cleared, she stood in a vast stone hall, dimly lit by scattered spelllamps. A low stone dais rose in the center of the room, and upon the dais stood a rough-hewn pillar. There was a metallic smell in the air, something familiar and unpleasant…

  Blood.

  Rachaelis came to the dais and shivered from something other than the cold.

  Three dogs lay upon the dais, blood pooled around their slashed throats, eyes glittering and lifeless. The blood was still wet, and Rachaelis had the feeling that if she touched the fur, they would still feel warm.

  But why? Why kill the dogs like that?

  A silver flash, and Magister Jonas appeared before her, his blocky face solemn.

  “The third trial of the Testing, Initiate,” said Jonas. “Often an Adept must defend himself, whether from demons, those pursuing paths of forbidden magic, or from the violence of ignorant men.
Our weapon is fire drawn from the astral world itself, fire against which nothing can stand.”

  Rachaelis nodded.

  “Blue astralfire can destroy material objects,” said Jonas, pointing. “The pillar. Destroy it.”

  Rachaelis took a deep breath, drew in her power, and thrust out her palm. A snarling crackle, and a bar of azure flame erupted from her hand. It slammed into the pillar, drilling into its core. There was a thunderclap, and the pillar split in two, collapsing into a pile of shattered fragments.

  Jonas lifted a single eyebrow.

  A wave of dizziness went through Rachaelis. She had hit the thing harder than she wanted. She had to conserve her strength. The Divine only knew how much longer the Testing might last.

  “Good,” said Jonas. He waved his hand, and a shimmering halo of silver light appeared around him. “The silver astralfire can pierce magical protections and unravel spells.” He beckoned. “Pierce my protections.”

  Again Rachaelis summoned the power and gestured. A column of snarling silver flame leapt from her hand and crashed into Jonas’s ward. For a moment the ward shuddered and hissed, power struggling against power. Then the ward collapsed, and Jonas stumbled back a few steps, astonishment on his face.

  “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” said Rachaelis.

  Jonas barked out a laugh. “No. But you’re a strong one. My own fault. Talvin warned me.” He looked at her, and the amusement drained from his face. Then he gestured again, and vanished in the silver flash.

  Rachaelis blinked. There were three kinds of astralfire, and she had only used the first two. But why had Jonas left? Had she failed somehow?

  She looked towards the dais, and saw the dead dogs move.

  Her breath seized in her throat. The dogs climbed to their feet in jerky, halting movements, as if manipulated by unseen strings. Blood still dripped from their slashed throats. As one their heads rotated to face her, and she saw a hellish glare in their eyes, as if hot coals burned within their skulls.