The Unbound Empire

by Melissa Caruso

  “And your sister?”

  “Her window was freshly blooded. I used my dagger.”

  “Then there’s nothing to fear, and everything to look forward to.” Lalita set down her drink. There was a faraway look in her eyes. “How old were you during the last storm?”

  “Young,” said Mehr. “I can’t remember.”

  “It’s been an age since I last saw a storm,” Lalita said, a wistful edge to her voice. “When I was a child I loved them. My clan would spend days preparing the Rite of Dreaming. And when the dreamfire fell—ah, Mehr, it was a beautiful thing. You can’t imagine it.” A sigh. “But of course storms were more frequent where I was raised. There’s just no soul in Jah Irinah.”

  Storms of dreamfire only occurred within the confines of Irinah’s holy desert. But Irinah was vast, and Lalita had grown up deep in the heart of the desert, where storms fell frequently. Jah Irinah, built as it was on the outer edge of the blessed sand, was rarely graced with storms. Nonetheless, it was a common belief among the Irin that the presence of the Ambhan Empire in the city—in its buildings, its fountains, its culture, and its people—kept the storms at bay. Dreamfire, they would whisper, belonged to Irinah and Irinah’s people. It wouldn’t deign to fall before foreign eyes.

  Mehr understood that belief. Built in the early years of the Empire, when the first Emperor ordered a loyal Governor to the conquered country to rule in his stead, Jah Irinah was and always would be a purely Ambhan city. The Empire was visible in every swooping arch, every mosaic-patterned wall, and every human-made fountain pumped with precious, wasted water. The city was built on Irinah’s back, but there was certainly none of the country’s harsh beauty in its bones.

  Lalita was still lost in old memories, her face soft with sadness. “The Rite of Dreaming usually needs more dancers, but we’ll manage.” She looked at Mehr. “We’ll greet the storm together.”

  “You want me to dance the rite with you?” Mehr said, not trying to hide the disbelief in her voice.

  “That is how Amrithi greet storms, Mehr,” Lalita said, amused. She patted Mehr’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve taught you everything you need to know.”

  “I thought you were leaving.”

  “For this,” said Lalita gently, “I can delay my journey a little longer.”

  How many times had Mehr looked out at the desert and imagined living on its sands in a clan of her own, dancing the Rite of Dreaming for the storms of dreamfire that so rarely crossed its boundaries? She’d always known it was an impossible thing to hope for.

  “My mother…” Mehr stopped. There were so many feelings hurtling through her. She didn’t know how to put them into words. “The Rite of Dreaming is danced by clans,” she said finally, her voice brittle. “And I have no clan.” She swallowed. “This isn’t for me. But I thank you.”

  The amusement faded completely from Lalita’s face. The expression that took its place was full of knowing compassion.

  “Neither of us are good Amrithi, my dear,” Lalita said gently. “I have no clan anymore either. But we can be clan to each other.” She pressed her fingers to Mehr’s knuckles in fleeting comfort. “You’re a woman now. You’ve learned your rites and your sigils, and shown your ancestors the proper reverence. You are Amrithi, Mehr. The rite is your inheritance, just as it is mine. When the storm comes I’ll be here to dance with you. I promise this.”

  Mehr felt an upswell in her heart. But she kept her expression calm.

  “I appreciate it,” she said.

  Lalita leaned back, took another delicate sip of her drink, and swiftly changed topic. She eased the conversation onto lighter ground, relating gossip from the racier circles she traveled within in Jah Irinah that Mehr had little access to. Lalita darted artfully from topic to topic, telling Mehr about scandals among the city’s merchants, and news of new fresh-faced courtesans rising in fame or infamy. She told Mehr about the restlessness among factions of the nobility, and the trouble they’d caused in response, or so she’d heard, to rumblings from the Emperor’s court.

  “The young ones,” she said, “the ones who want to prove themselves and earn glory for their names, are causing no end of trouble in the city.”

  “What are they doing?” Mehr asked.

  Lalita gestured vaguely with one hand, a line of irritation forming between her brows. “What do men do, when they want to cause trouble? Harassing traders and merchants, barging their way into pleasure houses. They claim to be the Emperor’s eyes. They say it gives them the right to do as they please.” Lalita’s gaze sharpened. “They may have the right. But your father will know far more about the Emperor’s business than I do.”

  Hungry, ambitious young nobles trying to curry the Emperor’s favor by striving to fulfill his perceived desires were a nuisance, but a nuisance her father could quash. Nobles acting on the Emperor’s orders—as the nobles that Lalita had so carefully chosen to warn Mehr about claimed to be—would be infinitely more dangerous. Governor though he was, her father could not stand in the way of the Emperor’s direct commands.

  “My father doesn’t speak to me about such things,” Mehr said finally.

  “I know, dear one,” Lalita said. Her voice was soft. “But ah, enough of serious business. Let me tell you what I learned from a patron last week…”

  After one inspiring story about a hapless merchant and two business-minded dancing girls, Mehr was almost relaxed. She was laughing when a guardswoman entered, a grim expression on her face.

  “Lady Maryam has asked for you to attend her, my lady,” she said.

  That put a complete stop to Mehr’s laughter. She straightened up, offering the guardswoman a cool look that was returned in kind. Her stepmother’s servants had no particular love for Mehr.

  “Give me a moment,” Mehr said. Knowing Maryam would have demanded Mehr be brought to her immediately, she added, “I must say good-bye to my guest. I’m sure Mother would agree.”

  As Mehr stood, Lalita stood with her.

  “Mehr,” Lalita said, a hint of hesitation in her voice. “We will talk more when I return for the storm, but do try to be… careful. Your father will keep you safe, my dear, but these are difficult times.”

  Mehr nodded. She was very conscious of the guardswoman waiting for her, listening to Lalita’s every word.

  “When you return for the storm we’ll speak properly,” Mehr agreed. “I’ll make sure we’re not disturbed, if I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  Usha came over and placed Lalita’s hooded robe around her shoulders.

  “I’ll see myself out,” Lalita said lightly. She touched her fingers to Mehr’s cheek. “Be brave,” she said. “Nothing harms like family. I know.”

  “I’m always brave,” Mehr said.

  “So you are,” Lalita said, ever so softly. “My dear, I hope you never change.”

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  THE UNBOUND EMPIRE

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  SOULKEEPER

  by

  DAVID DALGLISH

  Devin Eveson is a Soulkeeper, traveling through remote villages as a preacher and healer. But when a dragon awakens—the size of a mountain and leaving great chasms in its wake—the veil is torn, flooding the land with ancient magic and forgotten races. Now Devin must set aside his words of peace and accept his new role: slayer of monsters and protector of the human race.

  But not all the creatures that have reawakened mean humanity harm. And as Devin slowly befriends people of these new races, his discomfort in his role grows. But Soulkeepers must slay without mercy. And even sympathizers risk their wrath.

  CHAPTER 1

  The reaping hour approached. Devin Eveson stood with the town mayor in a circle of pines, an unlit pyre between them. Starlight twinkled off the snow on the branches. The moon’s glow created a ghostly skyline of the surrounding mountains.

  “I hope your presence means Milly’s soul finds rest,” Mayor Jonathan said as he huddled in his worn brown coat. His pale s
kin was weathered and his head shaved, but his beard was still a lively black despite his age. “For thirty reapings I never did bury a body, but these last few? It seems the Three Sisters have grown fickle. Or perhaps they have abandoned us completely.”

  A young girl lay upon the pyre before Devin, seven or eight years old at most. All but her face was covered with a pale green blanket. Snow settled atop her raven hair, granting her a soft crown. It saddened Devin to see a child taken so young. Whatever disease was ravaging Dunwerth was a cruel and vicious one. Black welts covered the dark skin of her neck, and if he pulled the blanket away, he’d find dozens more across her body.

  Do you hear my voice, Milly? he spoke inside his mind. Heed my prayer, and enter the arms of the Sisters. Find safety. Find peace.

  “The Sisters have not abandoned us,” Devin said to Jonathan. “When faith is tested, it either grows stronger or breaks entirely. We must not give up on the Sisters, lest they give up on us.”

  He used his feet to clear away snow from where he would kneel and pray. His heavy leather coat and padded gray trousers would protect him from the cold, but he’d rather not have his knees soak through.

  “Maybe so,” Jonathan said. “But since the plague hit our village I’ve had to bury the last five, not burn. Never needed a Soulkeeper to help me perform the ritual, not once until this mess began.”

  “And souls used to traverse to the heavens without any intercession necessary at all. The world changes, however slowly, and so we must change with it.”

  Dunwerth was not alone in its steady increase in burials. Village elders and town mayors used to be sufficient for the ritual, but now all across the Cradle, the need for skilled Soulkeepers grew. Anwyn, caretaker of the dead, seemed less and less inclined to guide souls to her bosom, forcing people to bury the bodies in the hope that their souls might return on their own some future night.

  Devin recited the ritual prayer, taking great care with every syllable. He thanked Alma for the granting of life, Lyra for caring for Milly during her few short years, and last Anwyn for taking her soul into the heavens for an eternity of bliss. That finished, he scooped a handful of snow and then pressed it upon Milly’s face, slowly covering everything above the neck. Mud from ocean waters was used on the east coast, rich black prairie soil in the southern grasslands, but here in the mountains, the snow would be her pyre mask.

  Once it was finished Devin pulled the burnt leather glove off his right hand and carefully drew a triangle upon the mask and then a circle around the downward point. Each side represented one of the Sisters and their connections to the others, while the bottom circle was both sun and moon, life beginning and ending at the same place in the heavens. Devin clasped his hands behind his back, bowed his head, and waited.

  The moon rose higher. Not a cloud marred the beautiful field of stars. In their light, at the base of the lonely mountain range that was Alma’s Crown, in a circle of trees at the edge of the Dunwerth Forest, the two waited for Milly’s soul to ascend.

  Devin immediately felt the presence of the reaping hour upon its arrival. The world tensed, the animals hushed, the night fowl grew quiet and alert. Devin held his breath, his jaw clenched tightly as he stared at the symbol he’d drawn upon Milly’s forehead. His hand drifted to the pendant hidden underneath his shirt, a silver moon inscribed into the downward point of a triangle. The symbol of Anwyn, goddess of the dusk, the caretaker of souls, and the gentle hands waiting at the end of all things. The symbol of the Soulkeepers.

  “By Alma, we are born,” Devin whispered into the silence. “By Lyra, we are guided. By Anwyn, we are returned. Beloved Sisters, take her home.”

  A soft blue light swelled from Milly’s forehead, shining as a translucent pillar reaching all the way to the stars themselves. The triangular symbol brightened, and a little orb of swirling light rose from her forehead and ascended the blue pillar. Devin’s every muscle relaxed. The soul had separated cleanly from the body. The risk was over.

  Though the Mindkeepers of the Keeping Church debated a soul’s true makeup, Devin had never wondered. In that brilliant white light he saw memories, emotions, flickering faces of loved ones. What else could the soul be but all the person had once been? The orb rose upward, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the blue pillar of light lifted it heavenward. By the time it vanished from view, the beam had faded and the reaping hour had passed. Owls resumed hooting, and in the distance, Devin heard a chorus of wolves crying to the moon.

  “Thank Anwyn for that,” Jonathan said, scratching at his beard. “I wasn’t sure I could handle another burial.”

  If the soul had remained within the body Devin would have buried it beneath the ground to offer Milly another chance, every quiet unwatched night, to break free of her mortal prison and ascend to the heavens. Now that the soul had parted, the body was an empty shell, cast off no differently than a snake shedding its skin. Devin removed the cap to the oilskin hanging from his belt and began splashing it across the pyre’s thin, dry wood. He put the skin away once it was emptied and pulled two flint stones from a pouch belted to the small of his back.

  Three quick strikes and the sparks lit the oil. Triangular stones created the pyre’s outline, with thick, braced logs propping up the body atop a bed of thick kindling. It’d taken over an hour to build the pyre so that it would safely burn throughout the night. Come spring, life would sprout anew from the ash shaped in the symbol of the Three Sisters.

  “A fine job, Soulkeeper,” Jonathan said, patting him on the back. “But I fear you’ll have many more rituals to perform if you can’t spare us from this plague. The rest wait in my home. Come see the extent of our misery.”

  “Home” was a wood cabin in the heart of quiet little Dunwerth. Devin had visited many such villages across the western frontier, and he preferred their aura of kinship to the guarded hustle of the great cities. The air was quiet, the moon settling lazily above the white-capped mountains. A thin layer of snow crunched underneath Devin’s feet as they walked the main road. He pulled his coat tighter about him and crossed his arms. His position as a Soulkeeper had sent him all throughout West Orismund, but this was a place of firsts. Dunwerth, tucked deep into the mountains of Alma’s Crown, was the westernmost village in the nation, as well as the highest in elevation. It certainly felt it. The air moved thin in his throat, his lungs never quite full. As for the cold, it mocked his layers of clothing as it relentlessly assaulted his skin.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t give you a better greeting,” Jonathan said. He stopped before the door to his home and fumbled for a key. “We take pride in our hospitality. It’s a poor host who asks you to perform a reaping ritual upon your arrival instead of warming your feet by a fire.”

  “I did not come for hospitality. I came to help you in your time of need.” Devin smiled at the older man. “Though I’ll admit sitting by a fire sounds divine right about now.”

  Jonathan inserted his key and turned it with a satisfying click of iron.

  “I wish that you could.”

  Candles lit the wide main room of the home, and a healthy blaze burned in the fireplace. A long couch was pushed to one wall, a padded rocking chair against the other, each to make room for the six men and women sleeping on the floor. In the firelight Devin easily saw the dark splotches seeping into their blankets. Two children shared the couch; a third curled up like a cat in the seat of the chair. She was softly crying.

  “Sisters help us all,” Devin whispered. A smell of rotting fruit permeated the air, intermixed with sweat and piss. Occasionally one of the villagers coughed in their sleep, and it was painful to hear.

  “I have a single guest room,” Jonathan said. “Three more are in there. That’s where I’ve put those who still possess the strength to walk.”

  “I see you’re back,” a woman said. Devin turned to greet her. She stood in the hallway leading toward what appeared to be a kitchen. Her curly hair was pulled back from her face in a bun, her brown eyes bloodsho
t from exhaustion. She held a large basin of water with several cloths soaking in it. “How did… you know. The ritual. Did it go well?”

  “Milly’s body is ash and her soul is in a place of light and happiness,” Devin answered.

  “That’s good to hear,” the woman said. She scooted past the two of them and put the basin on a small end table. “Milly was a precious girl, and she deserved a much happier life than what the Sisters gave her.”

  “Theresa’s been helping me with the sick,” Jonathan said as the woman wrung out one of the cloths. “We’d have lost more lives already if not for her care.”

  “I’m only delaying what’s certain,” Theresa said, shaking her head. “I’m glad you’ve come, Soulkeeper. Only the Goddesses can spare us from this cruelty.”

  Theresa gently washed the face of the nearest sleeping man, focusing on the weeping black welts. Devin slipped past her to where the crying girl lay in her chair. She was the youngest victim he had seen so far, even younger than Milly. Her face was buried into her pillow and her blanket bunched at her shoulders. She heard his footsteps and turned, her tear-filled eyes a beautiful almond color. Devin furrowed his brow upon realizing that the girl’s skin bore no sign of the black welts.

  “Milly’s sister,” Theresa explained. “Her name’s Arleen. She’s not ill but we thought it best she not be alone.”

  “Do you not fear contagion?” Devin asked quietly.

  “Of course we do, but no other home will take her. They’re all convinced she’ll spread the illness that claimed her aunt and sister.”

  Devin understood their fear but still felt it cruel. He knelt so that he and Arleen were at the same height, pulled off his hat, and set it on his knee. The girl watched him closely, as if fearing he might bite.

  “Hello, Arleen,” Devin whispered.

  “Hello,” she said. Her eyes lingered on the triangle-and-moon pendant hanging from his neck. “Are you a Soulkeeper?”