Guilds & Glaives

by David Farland

  “If you tell anyone about this, if you whisper one single word, my guild will murder you. It could come from anyone. A friend. A mother. A lover. And we will dispose of that person when we’re done with their body. You were attacked by a thief, just a thief. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, eyes wide with fear.

  “Someone will find you,” he said, turning to go.

  It was dangerous to let her live, and she’d always bear that unfortunate scar, but still, he did the right thing sometimes. When possible.

  * * *

  “Ah, excellent choice,” said the queen as Rivyn stepped into her bedchamber.

  Rivyn took in his target. As a common woman, she would have looked, well, common, but dressed as she was in a formfitting slip of shimmering green, she did indeed look like someone who would indulge her lusts. Her hair fell draped around her smooth shoulders and a jet-black necklace plunged between her breasts, disappearing beneath the fabric of her dress. There was a hardness to her eyes he had not expected, a world-weary wisdom he was used to seeing in the faces of urchins struggling to survive on the humid streets.

  “My queen,” Rivyn said, carefully setting down the food on an oaken table.

  Now came the hardest part. The guild didn’t want the queen to fear Soul Runners any more than she already did. They certainly didn’t want her to know that they could infiltrate her chambers. Which meant Rivyn couldn’t simply Bind her and walk away with the jewel. Instead, he needed to play the game. He was a pleasure slave. He would provide pleasure. And when she fell asleep, he would find the jewel and escape. Betrayal by a kept man was hardly unreasonable. In fact, the papers falsifying the slave’s disloyalty were already in the right hands.

  His success all rested on whether he could be the person she wanted that night.

  Action is identity. Provide pleasure under orders, you’re a pleasure slave.

  Rivyn sauntered toward her, preparing himself. The queen was not known for her gentle touch, but Rivyn had been through worse. “What would my queen desire this evening?”

  The queen quirked her head, examining him. “Tell me about yourself, slave.”

  Odd. “What would you like to know?”

  “Tell me what you most long for.”

  “I live only to pleasure you, your majesty.”

  The queen sat down on the edge of her bed and took up a pitcher of wine from a standing table. She poured a glass, then held it out toward Rivyn.

  “Here. Drink.”

  “As you wish.” Rivyn took the wine. This was not what he had expected. He couldn’t tell yet if the difference meant danger.

  She poured herself a glass, raised it, and drank. Rivyn joined her.

  “There. Now we’ve broken bread. So tell me, what is it you most long for? And I do not want to hear a second lie.”

  “What lie?” Rivyn asked.

  She narrowed her eyes at that. “A dishonest question is dangerously close to a lie, slave.”

  “I am uncertain that it would be wise to speak.” Her face hardened and something in her look dragged the truth from him. “I would … like to be free.”

  “And why would you like to be free?” she asked. Rivyn sensed there was a deeper game at work, but he could not decide what it was.

  “I …” Rivyn worked to think as a slave and quickly found it was not such a difficult part to play. Was he not a slave to the guild? They had rescued him from the streets, certainly, but they had ripped away his mortal body, leaving him as nothing more than an endlessly running consciousness, forever at their beck and call. To settle into a final body would be to consign the person he chose to Bind to a fate akin to death, and even then, he could never successfully evade capture by the guild, could he?

  “I am not sure,” Rivyn finished.

  “That,” said the queen, “I believe.”

  “Perhaps it was a foolish thought.” Rivyn stood and began to slip off his shirt. “Now, let us put it aside.”

  “Hush. I am not finished with you.”

  Why did she refuse him? Had he picked the wrong body? Rivyn tensed, preparing for the worst.

  “I know what it is to be trapped,” she said, casting her gaze about the room. “The cells are lavish, but a queen is slave to duty, to her people, to her station. We are all trapped in one way or another.”

  “It is not the same, your majesty.”

  “No, I suppose it is not.” She took a sip of wine. “Please, call me Anshalla. You expect to be my lover. Lovers should treat each other as people. Sex without intimacy is an empty thing.”

  Something was terribly wrong. The queen—Anshalla—seeking intimacy? Impossible. She knew. She had to know.

  Rivyn worked to control his breathing. He would not tip his hand. Not yet. If he could just get closer, perhaps he could forge a connection by blood and Bind her. The guild would not be pleased. Not by half. But it was better than a catastrophic failure.

  “We are on this turning world but a brief time,” she said, eyes piercing, refusing to let him look away. “Would you truly spend it in fear? Each moment is one of choice. Each moment a chance to change our fate, to tell those who shackle us: ‘No longer.’”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Rivyn asked, thoughts spinning.

  “Because I would rather this night end peaceably, Soul Runner.”

  Damn.

  Rivyn shot into motion, hurling the wine into the queen’s face. As she recoiled, he already had his shuriken in hand. It flew through the air, just behind the wine. She stood, turning to her side instinctively, but she wasn’t fast enough and one of the blade’s sharp corners nicked the flesh of her right arm. Little more than a scratch, but it was enough.

  Rivyn Leapt.

  He felt himself—

  He felt himself rooted exactly where he’d begun. No darkness. No otherworldly pull. Nothing.

  He Leapt again, shutting his eyes, focusing his will—and remained.

  “What—”

  “I said I would prefer to resolve this peaceably.” She stood. “You Soul Runners are all the same. Guild puppets, to the core.”

  “It’s not possible.”

  “Do not presume to tell me what is possible,” she said, wiping the wine from her face with a sleeve.

  There was only one way to gain immunity to the bloodforge.

  “You’re—”

  “Yes. I’m one of you. A secret which, unfortunately, must remain close to the breast.” She pulled a long knife from a hidden compartment beneath her bed.

  “How did you know? I was careful.”

  “I knew because you are not my Damian. I keep up pretenses, but I must admit that I am a romantic. While I take many bodies to my bed, I always truly take only one lover. One man, one mind, but each day, different flesh. Endless variety, and the slaves themselves need never be involved. But Damian is delivering a missive to a subject at the Outskirts. His return is at least an hour off.”

  Rivyn could hardly process what he was hearing. Another Soul Runner? Who was he? Who was she?

  She struck.

  A blur of beauty and silver, stained red with wine. Rivyn barely had time to roll out of the way. He was a formidable fighter, but he’d never practiced fighting fair and he’d had no time to familiarize himself with this body.

  She came at him, a blinding blade. Rivyn grabbed the tray and hefted it to block the blow. The steel clanged with a note he knew would ring through the palace.

  “Shit,” he said. Think, Rivyn. Think.

  He needed to escape. To flee and take his chances in the wilds. Without the queen’s treasure, whatever it might be, there would be no returning to the guild. And he knew their secret—they had failed to control one of their own. A secret they would surely kill to keep.

  The doors burst open and guards poured in. A dozen of them, each armed and armored, men of training. Any of them alone might pose a threat. But twelve? Rivyn had died the moment the queen had seen through his flesh to the man beneath. It had simply
taken this long for the blade to reach the soft of his neck.

  “Assassin!” shouted one of the guards, and boots clamored. Swords rang from scabbards. Shouts filled the air and Rivyn felt it grow heavy with heat, as if the warmth of the jungle beyond had somehow been sucked into the room. He blocked another swing of the queen’s blade—of course she could fight; she’d been trained just as he had—and the tray split in two.

  His shield was gone, and with it, his time.

  The guards were nearly on him. The guards … the guards.

  With the split-second awareness of battle, Rivyn saw the tray in his hands. The queen’s blade had left a sharp edge. Rivyn twisted, in a single motion dragging half the tray across his arm and hurling it at an oncoming guard. Two feet away, a foot, and the tray impacted, digging into the leather at the man’s leg.

  Please, Rivyn thought.

  He focused his will. And Leapt.

  Darkness. A gut-twisting forward drop. Light.

  Rivyn’s vision snapped into place just in time for him to see his own hand running the pleasure slave through with his sword.

  Adrenaline coursed through this body, which pulsed with strength. He felt the armor where it touched him, felt the sting of the shallow cut on his leg, just above a strap that held a dagger. A thousand nerves giving him information at near-instant speed.

  “Good work, Merrick,” said another guard.

  “He’s a Soul Runner!” the queen shouted, coming at him. “Don’t let him cut you.”

  Before they could react, Rivyn ran, bowling past them and to the door.

  An alarum rang through the palace. Bells. So many bells. And a few fleet footsteps behind him, the queen, giving chase.

  He turned a corner and smashed into a behemoth of a man. The two tumbled to the ground. Before the guard could recover, Rivyn pulled the dagger from his leg and stabbed the guard through the neck. But the queen was on him, blade swinging down.

  Rivyn rolled, came to his feet, drew his own sword. Their weapons met, trading blows, dancing forward and back, gaining ground, losing ground, and beneath them, the guard’s blood spread slick upon the hall’s stone floor.

  She’s good, he thought, but rusty. Too many years of comfort. But how many years?

  “The Soul Runner those years ago,” he said, landing a kick that sent her tumbling back. She slipped on the red-stained rock and landed heavily. “It was you.”

  “No,” she replied from the ground. “It was merely the body that carried me. A body I put on display to show my ‘failure.’”

  “And who would doubt that one of us had lost their life to the best-protected woman in the sovereignty?”

  “Some have, but I’ve done well rooting out those who’ve suspected me. Though clearly someone in the guild still harbors suspicions.” She clenched her jaw. “You know, Soul Runner, the guild is not an organization worth obeying. They are slavers, murderers.”

  “As are you.”

  Why do I not press my advantage? He willed himself to plunge his sword into her heart. But he knew the reason. She had escaped. She had escaped to live her own life. Though he had never allowed himself to truly consider the possibility before, Rivyn did want to be free. He’d hardly known it, but it was a yearning, deep down. Not in his gut, for he had none—at least, none that truly belonged to him—it was a yearning of mind, of spirit, a lust for life that went beyond thought. He’d seen it in stallions and in slaves.

  And she had fulfilled that yearning.

  But there’d been only one Soul Runner sent to infiltrate the palace that day …

  “Your lover …”

  She leapt to her feet, and their fight raged once more, flowing down the hall. Behind him, a guard came running. Rivyn cut himself, hurled his dagger, and Leapt, putting a hall’s distance between him and the queen. But another guard appeared, and the queen threw a shuriken of her own—where had she been keeping that?—and then she was beside him. This time, in a stronger, deadlier body.

  Back where they’d come from, the girl who years ago had been the queen began to scream. A soul-piercing scream. Rivyn and the false queen threw their hands to their ears. It was the scream of the mad.

  Her mind had been trapped for years, tamped down. Hosts didn’t remember what happened while they were Bound—that much they knew. Or at least thought they knew. Rarely had a Soul Runner lived in one body for so long. What might seep through? What horror might a trapped mind experience?

  Rivyn recovered from the shock and once more ran. The false queen once more gave chase.

  They sprinted down halls, traded blows, Leapt from guard to guard, gaining distance, causing wounds, stealing bodies.

  Rivyn had danced once, long ago. Just the once, back before he’d become a being of mind. He’d scampered onto the grounds of one of the nobles, hoping to steal a bit of food from a feast spread upon a table. When he’d made it over the wall, he’d been struck by the beauty of the gardens, the grace of the people, the rhythm of the music.

  There, he’d met a girl. Lashiva. Perhaps a year or two older than he and clearly there for the same reason. They’d stuffed their mouths, then their pockets, then scurried out of sight. But neither one of them could bring themselves to escape immediately. They hid behind a great hedge, laughing at their spoils, swaying to the music that drifted across the estate.

  Once or twice before, the older boys Rivyn ran with had forced him to drink until he grew sick, but that night, that music, that girl—it was an intoxication of an entirely different nature. Somehow, the two had found each other’s arms and they’d rocked back and forth together, the world beyond bleeding away into nothing.

  And then the song had ended, and they’d been spotted, and Rivyn had fled. He never knew what happened to her.

  He often thought it was the most beautiful moment of his life. Back when life had been his.

  This, here in the castle, with the queen, was almost as beautiful. The music was that of swords, thunderous percussion that melted into high, ringing tones. The garden was one of stone and blood. The dance was a dance of death. And yet they did dance.

  And the kinship was the same.

  Here, Rivyn had found someone who truly understood him, and fate had placed them at opposite ends of a blade.

  They twirled, thrusted, parried. Any guard they encountered had no time to react, stunned by the confusion of two of their brethren fighting so beautifully.

  They did not tire, for when their muscles began to burn, they found themselves a fresh host, and their lungs filled with fresh air, and the dance began anew.

  Until suddenly, the long-ago queen barreled into the hall from a side room.

  They stopped. The false queen could not risk harming the girl, for once their fight was over, she would have to return to her guise. Rivyn, however …

  Rivyn leapt forward and slid his arm around the queen’s neck, holding his sword to her throat.

  “If you kill her,” said his fellow Soul Runner, “we both become outcasts, hunted by the guild.”

  “If I nick her throat,” Rivyn said, “I become you.”

  The queen, the Soul Runner, the guard, grimaced.

  “Maybe I should kill her,” said Rivyn. “I can think of worse fates than running with you by my side.”

  “I’m sorry,” spoke the false queen.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t sense it. We are cut from the same flesh. Think of what we could accomplish. Two Soul Runners together. We just might be able to escape.”

  “I think I could have killed you,” she said, musing.

  “I think I could have killed you.”

  She smiled, a sad smile. “I’ve already found my companion.”

  The young queen tried to speak, but Rivyn pressed his blade tighter, drawing blood. He felt the bloodforge then. After all, this sword had wounded his current body mere moments before. A focusing of will and he could become the queen.

  “What do you want?” asked the other Soul Runner.

  “You
asked me that already.”

  “And?”

  What did he want? Perhaps he should simply ask for the jewel and return to the guild. If he submitted to their mercy, they might allow him to live.

  The jewel.

  Rivyn felt something beneath his fingertips. A necklace. He curled his hand around it—there was a weight at the bottom, concealed beneath her dress. He lifted, slowly. The false queen’s eyes watched him from across the hall, fierce.

  And then he saw it. The object of his hunt.

  An onyx dagger, dangling beside an onyx spike. The Blade and Nail of Making.

  “Now you know why they pursue me.”

  “Damian,” said Rivyn.

  “I wanted a lover who would understand me. Not the flesh I wear, but me.”

  He had the jewel. He had the queen. His mission was complete. Bloodier than expected, and sure to unleash a hellstorm of retribution. But complete all the same.

  He could Bind the queen, return the jewel. With such a powerful prize in hand, the guild would surely overlook his transgressions, especially if he killed this rogue Soul Runner. What a thorn she must have been, and still they’d kept her quiet.

  How many others must there be out there, Soul Runners who’d escaped the guild’s grasp? Each of them staying silent so that they would not be pursued, each of them playing right into the guild’s lie that they had the power to punish any who sought freedom.

  But Rivyn could change that. He could wander the sovereignty until he found someone he loved, and together, they could search for a pair of hosts who truly deserved death. He could forge himself a companion, and they could take the bodies without remorse. Together, they would live out their days somewhere and finally, when the time came, they would reveal themselves, a message of hope for all those who thought the guild was unassailable.

  “You’ve made your companion,” said Rivyn. “Let me have mine.”

  She looked at him then, considering. “You’d turn against the guild?”

  “It seems to me,” Rivyn said, “that perhaps we are not as easy to hunt as they say.”

  “We are not,” she said, a smile gracing the great, bearded face she wore.