Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1)

by Brian Niemeier

  The kost rued his ensnarement by petty human prigs, but permanent escape from death had its price, including the conditions that had allowed the Shadow Caste to bind him. Fallon had little interest in the game he'd been made to play. Given the choice, he’d rather see the Eighth baal succeed and his current masters’ treachery fail; but such choices were now denied him.

  Fallon knew the black ship's course, and as the light faded at his back, he reached the rocky shore and its conical tower. Without pausing, he stepped from bank to river, the reeking water freezing solid beneath his feet. Walking on a sheet of ice that advanced before him, the kost forged ahead.

  His fourth time across the horizon, Fallon perceived a small boat approaching from the east. As it drew closer, he saw its pilot: an ancient man in rust-colored robes. The boatman held a long thin pole in his right hand, and the left he extended in warning.

  “Halt!” the grizzled figure said. “A cherished object is the price of crossing.”

  Fallon removed his dark glasses and tossed them to the boatman without slowing. Karun studied the sunglasses in bewilderment as Fallon walked past his ferry.

  The kost hadn’t gone a hundred feet before the water around the skiff began to churn. The river held secrets unknown even to the ferryman, and Karun screamed as rising corpses groped their way aboard to swarm over him.

  Night fell and the hunter pressed on, walking across the frozen waves.

  Nakvin had to acknowledge the Light Gen’s expertise. Belying their antiquated ways, they achieved a staggering transformation of the Exodus' crash site. The small army of craftsmen used deceptively simple tools and Workings—or rather Mysteries—to erect a drydock rivaling any in the Guild. Entire sections of hillside were cleared away, and lofty wooden derricks surmounted by cranes rose from the surrounding slopes.

  When asked if they wanted help, the shipwrights politely but firmly told the ship’s crew to keep out of the way. Considering the speed and skill with which the Light Gen worked, Nakvin thought their answer justified.

  For the first time since leaving Bifron, the pirates found themselves rich in their trade's rarest commodity: free time.

  Nakvin took to whiling away the hours with Teg, Deim, and Elena in the ship's common room—a spacious but cozy suite stocked with diversions of every kind. She especially enjoyed the ship's library of Kethan operas, featuring classic performances reproduced by glamer.

  Despite his vocal preference for comedies, Teg was soon captivated by the towering score and elaborate intrigues of Haath and Emin.

  “Why did she marry him?” he asked Nakvin during the tragedy’s second act.

  “So he'd help Keth build a navy,” she curtly explained.

  Everyone recoiled at the end when Zarm the Mad transessed the titular heroine and a swarm of loathsome insects—except for Teg, whose eyes gleamed with newfound wonder.

  Card and tile games followed the opera. Nakvin vied for supremacy against Teg, with Deim winning the occasional round.

  Nakvin watched Elena closely and became convinced that the young woman was holding back. “It's less fun for us if you don't try,” she said.

  Elena proceeded to win every game until Nakvin and the others resigned from play.

  Teg ruffled the girl's hair. “I'm taking you to Vigh,” he said.

  Nakvin frowned. “She’s too young to gamble.”

  “That depends on how you count,” said Teg, provoking a dark look from Deim.

  At the end of the day, Nakvin sat alone in the empty common room. She hadn't seen Jaren since the morning briefing. After that, he’d vanished into the countryside with Eldrid.

  The Steersman didn’t fear that her captain would come to harm. She knew that the pact with Despenser would ensure Jaren’s safety. She wasn’t so sure about his loyalties. He’s found his home, Nakvin thought. It’s only natural that he wants to stay here with his people.

  Nakvin had spent over a century with Jaren. She realized that she had no idea what course her life would take when he was gone.

  Deim woke from dreams that fled like shadows. Unable to sleep, he went walking in the warm, fragrant night. No moon shone in the black sky, yet silver luminance bathed the countryside. Deim let his feet take him where they would, which turned out to be a lonely hill about a mile from the ship.

  The steersman saw a circle of upright stones crowning the hilltop, and he climbed to them. To his surprise, Vaun was waiting there.

  “Good even, my lad,” the masked man said. “Come, there is much I would show you.”

  “Why should I?” asked Deim.

  “My sister wishes it,” said Vaun.

  Deim nodded. “Show me, then.”

  49

  Nakvin awoke to the ringing of her cabin’s bell. She answered the door to find Eldrid standing in the hall with her hands behind her back, wearing a pale blue gown shot through with thread of silver. “I would thank you for treating my injuries,” she said in her songlike cadence.

  “No thanks necessary,” said Nakvin. “I was just doing my job.”

  “Call it payment, then,” Eldrid said. She produced a lustrous white bundle from behind her back and offered it to Nakvin.

  The Steersman accepted the gift reluctantly. She unfurled the smooth fabric, revealing an exquisite set of Worked robes in white silk instead of black.

  Nakvin drew in a sharp breath as she carefully laid the precious garment against herself. It looked all the more magnificent against her makeshift robe of crimson wool. “Eldrid, this is unbelievable,” she said.

  Eldrid’s dark curls bobbed as she bowed her head. “A fair exchange for my health.”

  Nakvin inspected the elegant thread of gold tracings and got a second shock when she saw that they signified Master rank. “I’m not sure I deserve this,” she said softly.

  “I’m certain you’ll rise to it,” Eldrid said with a smile.

  Having his ship in drydock left Jaren with an abundance of spare time. He spent much of it taking long walks through Avalon's hills and forests with Eldrid. The Gen maid knew all of the land’s secrets, and every day she showed him a new marvel.

  First, Eldrid took Jaren to a nondescript slope where objects appeared to roll uphill.

  “Is this some kind of natural Working?” he asked.

  “No,” Eldrid said, “merely a trick of perspective.”

  Jaren’s gaze lingered on Eldrid’s face. “Somehow, I’m not disappointed,” he said.

  Next, they visited a cave so well hidden by overgrown roots and vines that Jaren wondered aloud how Eldrid had found it. A network of cool damp tunnels extended through the rock, and they spent the whole afternoon losing themselves under the hills.

  On the fifth day, Jaren followed Eldrid led to a secluded pond in a willow-shaded valley at the converging bases of four hills. She sat beside him on the green bank, peering at the lake’s glassy surface. Primordial silence surrounded them.

  “You’re working up the courage to tell me something,” Eldrid said at last.

  Jaren gave her his slyest look. “How would you know that?” he asked.

  Eldrid’s coquettish expression made him look like an amateur. “You’re not normally so quiet,” she said.

  Jaren sighed. “The sages fixed Elena's cables,” he said, referring to the shipwrights' final and most difficult task.

  Eldrid’s face fell. She twirled the stem of a small golden flower between her thumb and forefinger; then let it fall. “I suppose you'll be off again soon.”

  The wind stirred the willow leaves, scattering a flurry of green flecks across the surface of the water. The Gen maid's melancholy expression vanished like sun-melted mist, and she laughed. She turned to Jaren, favoring him with a lighthearted smile. He could have taken any other reaction in stride. Her expression said, we had our time, but it is passing; and such things must be enjoyed but never dwelt on.

  Jaren couldn't bear the thought that his presence in Eldrid's life was merely a fleeting diversion; that when he was gone
, he’d be forgotten as quickly as the windblown leaves. That realization settled the internal debate he'd been waging for most of a week.

  “I want you to come with us,” he said.

  Eldrid blinked. “I’d never have expected…”

  “Our people are gone from the Middle Stratum,” said Jaren. “In another generation, they won’t even be a memory. We can save them.”

  “I grieve for your plight,” Eldrid said, her face blushing, “but are you certain I’m fit for such a weighty task?”

  “I’m half human,” Jaren said. “My father said that my children will be human—unless their mother is a Gen.”

  Eldrid shook her head sadly. “Even then,” she said. “I fear the Well is too dry.”

  Jaren leaned forward and clasped her silken hands in his. “I've lived in the shadow of humanity all my life,” he said, “with no light to guide me since my father died. Meeting you has been like walking in the sun for the first time! I don't want to leave that behind.”

  “And you would have me dwell in that shadow also?” Eldrid asked, “To keep you company in the darkness?”

  Jaren's hands dropped to his sides, and he exhaled sharply. He had no counterargument.

  Eldrid ran her fingers through his hair, tousling the long red locks. “Some partings are fated,” she said.

  Jaren knew the words were meant as a consolation, but they cut his heart like a dagger. Finding his people had been the realization of an impossible dream. Though the Light Gen bore little resemblance to the fierce, bold warriors of his father’s tales, he couldn’t stand to lose them again so soon. “What if I stayed here?” Jaren asked.

  Eldrid, who’d shown mild surprise at Jaren’s invitation, seemed outright shocked by the second offer. Her hazel eyes widened. “You pride yourself on keeping your word,” she reminded him. “Are you not bound by a solemn vow to journey on?”

  Jaren took her hand once more. “What if it was a vow I could break?” he asked at length, speaking slowly like a child pronouncing a difficult word.

  “What manner of vow would that be?” Eldrid asked.

  “One I never should have made in the first place—one I was tricked into taking.”

  Eldrid's voice fell to a whisper. “You believe the baals cheated you?”

  “I don't know,” Jaren said. “But something you said might explain a few things.”

  Eldrid leaned in close, her expression grave. “If you suspect treachery, you have a duty to uncover the truth, no matter how unpleasant—for yourself and for your friends.”

  Jaren contemplated Eldrid's words. At length he rose and said, “Follow me.”

  The middle of her fifth day in Avalon found Nakvin seated at the ruined bar in the officers' lounge; a bottle of white wine on the charred counter beside her. Despite the early hour, the decanter was more than half empty.

  “I don't mean to pry,” Teg prefaced as he walked through the doors, “but drinking alone is self-destructive.”

  Nakvin pulled out the stool next to hers. “Why not join me, then?”

  “Good idea,” said Teg. “We can solve two problems that way.” Rummaging behind the bar produced a bottle of rich-smelling amber liquor.

  One hour and two bottles later, the pirates exchanged sullen looks.

  “I'm not drunk,” said Teg.

  “Welcome to my world,” Nakvin said with a bitter laugh.

  “Yeah, but drinking never affects you,” said Teg. “I don’t take well to forced sobriety.”

  “Any idea what happened?”

  “It started when I got this body,” said Teg, waving a hand over his muscular, golden-haired form. “Sulaiman had it for centuries, so who knows where it’s been?”

  “It might not be his fault,” Nakvin said, poking Teg's bicep. “The arm grew back. Whatever Despenser did to regenerate it might also prevent intoxication.”

  “Either way, I hate it. But since we can't get drunk, we might as well talk.”

  “What is there to talk about?” Nakvin asked before taking another futile swig.

  “Jaren, for one thing,” said Teg, “Eldrid for another.”

  Nakvin regarded her glass as she swirled the wine. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Look, I've been with this outfit for a while. Not as long as you, Jaren, or Deim; but I keep my eyes open.”

  “You eavesdrop on people,” Nakvin said.

  Teg took another pull from his own bottle. “It's unintentional. I don't peek through keyholes or anything, but I do notice things.”

  “For example?”

  “Your promotion, for one thing,” said Teg. “Congratulations.”

  Nakvin tugged at the sleeve of her white robe. “The Guild didn’t grant it,” she said. “So I can’t charge more, but thanks. What else?”

  “Deim and Elena slept together the night we found her—at least I think they did.”

  Nakvin was unfazed. “She basically told me as much back at the Freehold.”

  “Does it bother you?” Teg asked. “I know you're protective of her.”

  Nakvin sighed. “I know Deim cares for her. I just wish he were more stable, and Elena is a little young.”

  “She's older than she looks, if it makes you feel better,” said Teg.

  Nakvin’s brow wrinkled. “The Mithgarders said she was sixteen.”

  “According to Elena, she’s made of pieces of other people’s souls. The oldest one's about a hundred and fifty.”

  Nakvin stared into her glass and fell silent.

  Teg laid a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

  “No,” Nakvin said as though half asleep. “It’s crazy, but somehow it makes sense.”

  “I can leave if you'd rather be alone.”

  “Please stay,” Nakvin said. “What were you going to say about Jaren and Eldrid?”

  “Just that I know how you feel.”

  “Do you?” she asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

  “It depends,” said Teg. “I see a lot, but I've never figured out what goes on between you and Jaren.”

  “Less than everyone thinks,” Nakvin said.

  “Really? After all these years?”

  “He was like a little brother for the first two decades,” Nakvin said defensively, “and you've seen enough of the Gen to know what their sex drive is like. Ever wonder why a race of immortals hasn't filled this place to the rafters? They must average about one child per couple every century. The rest of the time, they're too caught up in their private obsessions to think about anything else.”

  “One every hundred years, yes,” Eldrid spoke from the doorway. “Or near enough. That was the case until two generations ago. But now, Lady Steersman, there are none at all.”

  Nakvin spun around in her chair, her breath caught in her throat. Teg stayed as he was, slowly sipping his drink.

  “The Well is too dry, you see,” Eldrid said, her voice wavering between anger and sorrow. “The Gen pay a price for their immortality. Much more prana is required to form and sustain them than those of the clay tribe—now too much.”

  “Eldrid…” was all Nakvin could say before the second of the lounge's double doors swung open, revealing Jaren standing beside the Gen woman. His face looked grim and haggard. The captain answered Nakvin's shamed, pleading look with a weary shake of his head.

  “I need Elena here,” he said. “She’s in the engine room with the shipwrights.”

  Nakvin opened her mouth to apologize, but the two Gen walked past her, heading for the vault. Jaren’s silence expressed the depth of his hurt better than words. Seeing no hope of making quick amends, Nakvin decided that the best penance was to do as Jaren asked. Quietly, she rose and left the room.

  The vault was as a hollow metal cube; its inner surface etched with a continuous grid. Jaren faced the right wall and traced his fingers along the engraved lines. A metal drawer opened, from which he removed a small cube of coarse grey stone.

  “I've been thinking lately,” h
e said to Eldrid, Teg, Nakvin, and Elena, who’d crowded into the vault with him. “For all of hell’s chaos, certain things keep repeating: gates, the baals, these stones, the Light Gen, prana. At first it all seemed like a meaningless coincidence; then a bad joke. Until this morning, I felt like someone trying to work a puzzle with too many missing pieces. But Eldrid hinted that I might be keeping those clues from myself. I hope I'm not.”

  Jaren offered the cube to Elena, who took it without hesitation.

  “Nakvin and Deim couldn’t figure these out,” Jaren said, “but Factors can’t conjure raw prana. They say the gods could do it; that prana might’ve been the reason they came here. Anyway, some of them shared the trick with their priests.”

  Jaren stabbed his thumb toward the door. “Sulaiman opened that hatch with prana. It stands to reason that whoever built the vault rigged these stones the same way.” He rested a hand on Elena's shoulder. The flesh and bone under her black cotton shirt felt almost insubstantial. “The shipwrights say you've been funneling pure prana into the engines. I need you to pour a little life into this rock.”

  Elena regarded her small audience uncertainly. Her rose-colored eyes finally settled on Jaren, who fought to keep his face from betraying his anxiety. A moment later, she held the cube out to him.

  Frowning, he reached for the stone. “You can't do it?”

  “I did.”

  Jaren touched the cube, and a shock raced through his body. His physical awareness faded as a disembodied presence drowned out his senses. His last sight was of Eldrid, Teg, and Nakvin converging on him; their eyes wide with shock, before the ineffable took him.

  50

  After his harrowing initiation on the hill, Deim joined Vaun in his chambers. The necromancer had been busy since Deim’s last visit, judging by the several new pieces of furniture made from human remains. The steersman wondered where Vaun had found the raw materials, but Vaun's stern, hollow voice stifled his curiosity.