THE ABSENCE OF SOUL (SOCIETY'S SOUL Book 1)

by Amanda Twigg

  Landra watched rivulets of red gunk lick hungrily at tree roots, the level swelling and ebbing to reveal a number zero on the trunk at each low tide. She didn’t know what to do.

  “The magic’s nearly gone,” Oakham said.

  “The Templer guide said it fills during power-down.”

  Oakham tilted his blind gaze to her face, sorrow creasing his skin folds into deeper grooves. “No, it won’t,” he said. “We’ve no true Templers left to fill the well. It gets lower every day, and once it’s gone, we’re done.

  Chapter 18

  Landra wondered at Oakham writing off her world. True, there’d been power shortages. Everyone had thought it was Templer trouble. Now, she wasn’t so sure. If the power ran out completely… No heat, no light, no food. Shelk!

  She’d experienced the harsh reality of the overlevel, and that was in a warmer season. Surviving the winter cold was beyond imagination. It was hard to know what to worry about most. How long do the engineers have to develop another power source—a day, a cycle, maybe a year? A rebuke from Thisk seemed the least of her worries, and the job Father had set on her shoulders weighed heavily enough to make her groan.

  Averting her gaze from the demonic scene, she stared into Oakham’s blind eyes and his milky gaze settled on her unerringly.

  “Is this what you wanted to show me?” she asked.

  He sighed, a world of weariness stooping his bony shoulders. “No.” He set a hand to the skin on her neck. “I wanted to show you this.”

  Landra’s world shifted. An unworldly sensation plucked her senses out of true, and her stomach flipped. Her vision fogged into a blur of color, and unintelligible chattering noises buzzed in her ears. She could swear she felt the smooth knob of Oakham’s stick in her hand, but when she leaned, there was nothing there and her knees buckled. In a snatched moment of clarity, a host of soldiers and Templers appeared from nowhere, bustling about their duties as if nothing were wrong.

  “What’s happening?” she said, turning her head to bring the vision into focus. The soldiers disappeared into tree trunks, and babbling sounds formed unintelligible words near her ear. The magic berry smell hung in her nostrils stronger than ever, and vomit pooled in her throat.

  “No!” she raged, hugging her belly. This is magic. Why would harmless, old Oakham do this? She couldn’t see or feel him, but she knew he was there, orchestrating her discomfort. She flailed her arms, but the magical prison didn’t respond to her physical defense. Without warning, the image froze and then fractured apart in a confusing kaleidoscope pattern that matched Oakham’s aura.

  Gasping, she sensed the sweat-drenching heat again, the heaving magical pool a few steps away, and the wooden planks beneath her knees. Spasms shook her body, and holding onto the foul-tasting sick in her throat became impossible. She deposited digested glider meat onto the path.

  Landra wanted to fulfil Father’s expectations and make him proud, yet here she was in the enemy’s stronghold, vomit-ridden, sapped of strength, and uncovered as flawed. A sense of inadequacy plagued her, but she set a firm portion of blame on Thisk’s shoulders. He was supposed to be her tutor, not put her in danger. No, not Thisk’s fault. Mine. Why didn’t I follow orders?

  “You’re fine, dear.” Oakham’s words came to her ears.

  “Fine!” she spat with steel-hardened rage. “What did you do, old man?”

  “I shared a memory, that’s all. Just takes a bit of getting used to. But you saw, didn’t you?”

  “Saw what?”

  Oakham gasped in a rattling breath. “You don’t have to say. You’ve come too late, anyway. I don’t think I’ve the strength to pass along the memory now. I had hoped to show someone the truth before I went, but my innards are failing.”

  Landra hauled herself up and glared fury at his blind eyes. Drawing the Collector, she waved it toward him. “Stay away, old man.”

  Her rage should have driven fear through him, but a triumphant grin spread over his face. His chin wobbled up to show tears on his cheeks. “My chief elect,” he said, lifting his feeble arm in salute. “Forgive me not taking a knee, but I’d tumble into the well for sure.”

  Landra was more embarrassed than she could explain. “No.”

  “No? You’re not the elect? But I’ve seen that knife before, in Chief Elect Sonra’s hand.”

  “Maybe I am, but don’t salute. The appointment hasn’t been announced, so I’m no one. I’m a citizen rank and at the bottom of the command chain.”

  “But you carry the Collector, so the succession’s set.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And you saw,” he repeated, with an edge of certain knowledge rather than a guess. “I could tell you have the sight from your aura. Its staining reminded me of the auras of old, but I’d given up on seeing another after all this time. Templer Denman told Gallanto there’d be another, but I never thought it would happen. And I never thought it’d be one of the Hux line with a gifted Soul.”

  “What are you babbling about, old man?”

  “Soul memories form in our essences, as a way of storing true history. They used to happen all the time back in my day.”

  “Well, they don’t happen now,” Landra spat. “How will imposing your confused rememberings on me help anyone?”

  The anger in her voice made Oakham’s sunken face twitch. “My old brain plays tricks, but this isn’t the same. Soul memories come from an unbreakable place. I’ve more than a dozen burned into my thoughts, and they’ve kept me going all these past years, like acts of a play. They stay true when other memories wander.”

  “Well, you can keep them to yourself.”

  “You’re angry. Didn’t your Soul trainer teach you this?”

  Landra shook her head in fierce denial. “I never met a Soul trainer, and I never will.”

  The old soldier’s face creased in confusion. “Never had a Soul trainer? By the mist gods of Jethra. The magic must run something powerful through your veins for the sight to come unlooked for.”

  “I have no magic. I’m a soldier,” Landra replied, offense coursing through her entire being. “One day, I’ll travel the six cities as a Warrior.”

  “Gallanto’s Warrior pride too.” A wry smile touched Oakham’s lips. “I don’t mean to offend, Chief Elect, and I have no worries over your Soul. It burns with as strong a Warrior blue as my chief’s ever did.”

  “So, why are you doing this?”

  “Because of Gallanto. He’d want this—told me to do it. The effort will likely kill me and I’ve not the strength to succeed, but I’d always hoped to die doing my duty.

  Landra swayed, considering his words. Part of her respected the Warrior honor in his plan. Another part of her longed for the relief his death would bring. She wouldn’t have to worry about him spilling tales of her flaw and all the trouble his rantings would bring. It’s mean. It’s necessary. “I’ll do it,” she said. May the mist forgive me.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Oakham said, his tears flowing freely now. “Help me down to the path, would you?”

  Easing him to the floor, Landra cradled his back against her chest. “What do we do?”

  “Relax.”

  She had no intention of relaxing and clutched the Collector tight, planning to use it at the first sign of trouble. Instead of touching her neck, Oakham set his hand over her grip on the knife, and her mistake became clear. A connection beyond her experience formed, rocking her to the core. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t cry. Oakham’s power well wrapped her aura with none of the frailty of the old man’s body. His thoughts sunk into her as if they were part of her Soul. Another presence called, and she froze in mind and body.

  Pink mist arose from the magic well, and more clumps churned beneath the path’s underside. The threads floated together, spinning into a ball around Landra’s blade. She stared as her knife’s color deepened and a magic buzz ran through the handle. She couldn’t move—couldn’t fight. Sweat trickled down her neck, and her fingers trembled as sh
e gathered her strength to break free.

  “Take the memory,” a voice sounded in her head.

  The tones rumbled deep in her Soul, giving her no place to hide. “I won’t,” she said. “I can’t.”

  “You can,” the voice answered. “Save our people, child of my life. This is an order from your chief.”

  Chapter 19

  Not Father! Not Chief Hux! Oakham trembled in her grip.

  “Gallanto,” the old soldier cried, making her wonder if everyone had gone on a scute-induced dream with her at the center. The depths of her Soul feared the truth. She’d felt the words more than heard them, and they were definitely Hux. But Gallanto? My great-grandfather? That’s ridiculous—stupid. The tones had rung with Father’s timbres, but this didn’t make sense. Could it really be that Chief Gallanto had returned from the dead to give her a message? The hysterical part of her wondered where a ghost chief ranked in the chain of command.

  The scene Oakham had used to bombard her senses wouldn’t leave her thoughts. An all-encompassing ruby glow had bathed her aura, like magic afire. There’d been noise, shouting, and commotion. And a smell. Oh, that smell, like the stench down here but masked by stronger berry scents.

  She wanted nothing to do with the magical vision, and distaste for Soul power entwined through her being at every level. She hated her people’s reliance on its energy and how it had ambushed her life. Her silence wasn’t lost on Oakham, and he sagged more in her grip.

  “You don’t know the trouble you’ve caused, old man,” she said. “You just don’t understand.”

  “I’m the last sentry. Both our past and future die with me. What more trouble can there be?”

  Landra hugged him against her chest, not wanting his magical memories, but if there was a chance…

  A chance of what? Shelk! How can it be my job to save our people?

  The answer came with unforgiving brutality. She was the chief elect, and this was her duty. Father would agree with her purpose, she was certain, but he would never understand what she planned to do next. It didn’t seem like an order from his dead grandfather would fly as an excuse.

  Oakham wrapped his claw-like fingers about the Collector’s handle, above her grip, and a mental connection formed. Landra didn’t welcome the joining, but she didn’t fight it either.

  “It’s a Soul memory, burned in with magic,” Gallanto’s voice said.

  Landra closed her eyes, held her breath, and prayed to the mist. Not knowing where it would lead, she gripped Oakham tight, but she relaxed her hold on her magic. “Show me your visions, old man.”

  Oakham’s aura melded with her blue shades, and all worldly sensations disappeared. The pain from where her knees had met the path eased, the slushy gurgling of the reservoir and the faint music from above silenced, and her vision filled with an amorphous fog. Only the berry smell stayed strong, dominating her senses to the point of nausea. Her chest released its captured breath without a sound, and she felt dull, as if trapped in a magical bubble.

  “Remember, this is Oakham’s memory,” Gallanto said. “You will experience events as him, sharing his thoughts and feelings. Stay in that reality.”

  She slid into the Soul vision as easily as entering a dream. The images formed, and Landra remembered herself as Landra in a corner of her mind, but now she was a young cadet, fit and male. She was Oakham.

  Staring from the platform’s edge, Oakham felt his twenty straight hours of portal duty as pain down his legs and stiffness in his back, but he couldn’t miss this. Chief Gallanto needed him, so he focused on the soothing air on his skin. The arching elba trees flourished in full glory today, with their shining trunks rising to the fulsome leaf canopy. Nothing looked more wonderous than the active portal, and it felt special to be the only cadet here amongst the senior staff. The world clock…

  A seventy-year-old date and spring festival reading on the clock face jangled awkwardly on Landra’s senses, making her separate from the events.

  “Be Oakham,” Gallanto insisted, and the memory slid back into motion. “Prepare for the next group,” Chief Gallanto ordered from the platform’s center, his battle-spiked uniform and flowing cloak making him look huge. His near-black silhouette stood out against the red swell of bubbling magic lapping over the platform’s edge. His glorious Warrior blue aura blazed as bright as any Templer’s magic glow, and his generous Soul billowed around him with streaks of deep pink patterning the rich azure hues.

  A dozen priests took their positions by tree trunks, looking more tired than Oakham felt. Their auras spread wide, encompassing their trees to lend power to the portal mechanism. With closed eyes, sweet-voiced singing, and foliage flourishing around their tall staffs, their magic bloomed with power in their swelling red auras.

  Oakham’s pride surged to be Gallanto’s runner, and he jumped to his tasks. Clipboard in hand, he checked off the preparations. He put a tick on his sheet in the Templer box and then ran down the main ramp to the greeting party.

  “Good day, Warriors,” he said, offering a smart salute.

  “Get on with it,” Security Chief Brixon said, her face locked into an angry mask.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Oakham checked his list, hoping to find the relevant assignments quickly. Everyone on base was on edge, and he suspected the more aura-gifted Warriors had sensed imminent misfortune. Anxiety coursed through the base like an infecting illness, so he couldn’t get this wrong.

  “Medic Kelsen,” he said, “there’s a soldier in the next group with a medical condition. Is everything prepared?”

  “I received details in advance, and we’re all set, cadet. Though why they’d assign a sick Warrior to base training is beyond me.”

  Oakham knew the reason but couldn’t say anything. He glanced up at the security detail. One, two, three, four, five, six, he mentally counted off.

  “Chief Brixon, my list says we’re due a double security detail for this arrival, ma’am.”

  “Gods of the mist, why, boy?”

  “Don’t know, ma’am. I just do the list.”

  “They’re on their way, but don’t you realize I had to pull them down from protecting an overlevel team? How can greeting our own soldiers need more security than that?”

  “I–”

  “Yeah,” Brixon said. “You don’t know. You just do the list.”

  Oakham felt the fearsome woman’s simmering anger and didn’t know what to say. Brixon brushed him away with a dismissive wave. A tick didn’t go in that box, but Oakham didn’t care. He was just a runner, after all.

  “Are the billets sorted?” he asked the community officer. Holden was a small, efficient man who never got caught out. With thousands of soldiers to transport, house, and feed, he couldn’t afford mistakes.

  “All set, cadet. This lot’s being shifted out to Fourth City, and the pod-train is waiting. I had a problem setting up credit accounts for them, but the tally man is on it and assures me funds will be in place by the time they arrive.”

  Oakham marked the box and then scribbled “CREDITS?” to one side. At that moment, the remaining security detail arrived, and he marked them present.

  “With respect, officers, please can you stand aside on the small path?” Oakham asked. “We’ve a big supply delivery coming in this trip, so the great doors are going to open.”

  As if on cue, the large doors cracked apart. A single priest pushed them outward with one hand, using his magical power to move their weight. The foliage from his lofted staff twined with the door vines and throbbed with energy.

  Oakham jogged back up the ramp to where Chief Hux stood. Gallanto had joined his wife and was in deep discussion. Even while engrossed, the chief noted his runner’s arrival and nodded for him to wait.

  The lull in activity allowed Landra to examine how strange this all felt. The dual sharing was confusing. Her identity sat tucked away in a corner of her mind, and she had no control of her interactions or emotions. They were set in a replay of actual events and couldn�
��t change. The pause didn’t last long.

  “Meftah,” the chief said to his wife, “does it really have to be like this?”

  Chief Gallanto’s wife glowed with Templer magic, her scarlet aura outshining the russet and jade shades of her gown. To a young boy’s eyes, she was spectacular. Her flowing dress of living flowers wasn’t meant to hide her fulsome figure, the heavy curve of her breasts, or the shapely length of her thighs. Nearly as tall as Gallanto and with the shoulders of a championship Warrior, she was every cadet’s fantasy. Her close-shaved head only showed the sweet roundness of her face, and her eyes sparkled a brilliant green. All-knowing wisdom swam in their depths. The flowers of her dress wound down her arm to wrap seamlessly around the thick shaft of her staff, and a berry-magic scent wafted off her like an intoxicating perfume.

  Hot, lustful urges coursed through…

  Oakham’s crush on Meftah matched Landra’s own intense longing for Bexter enough to throw her from the memory, and the vision pixilated.

  “Stay with me,” Oakham said through their connection. “I’d rather not share this, but picking a memory apart is impossible. You need to see the rest.”

  Landra hadn’t realized the Oakham of her time was here too. Now she sensed him, lurking in his own mind as she did in hers. The intrusion was shocking, and she wasn’t enjoying the magical sharing, but there seemed little point in stopping now. She accepted the young man’s lust as part of the memory, and the image reformed.

  “Don’t you think I’ve looked for another way?” Meftah said, touching Gallanto’s arm with more tenderness than Oakham had ever seen. Tears shone in her green eyes.

  “Don’t do this now,” Gallanto said, turning her from view and brushing the moisture from her cheek. “If this is the only way we can secure peace, we must stay strong for our people. We can’t show our pain.”

  Meftah bit her lip and gave a hint of a nod. “This isn’t good for either of us,” she said. “I don’t want to go back to Jethra without you.”