Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  From the way his father watched Kesta’s back and the scowl on his face, Winslow could tell he didn’t share the same sentiments as far as need.

  His father turned to him. “Did you get an idea of this melder’s skill?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. How did you mange to escape with your life anyway?”

  “The nightwatch.” Certain the count already had a report Winslow wanted to keep his answers to a minimum.

  “Strange,” the count’s expression became thoughtful, “Sergeant Costace swore some other noble assisted. A young man a bit shorter than you with sandy hair and amber eyes. Do you have any idea who he was?”

  Winslow shrugged. “None. Some random stranger who decided to help, I guess. I’ve never seen him before. Possibly a young man from one of the minor houses or a visitor from elsewhere. You know the type the Row attracts.”

  “I do indeed,” Count Cardiff answered. “Anyway, I’m glad that you are unhurt. Hopefully now you will heed my warnings. All of them.”

  “Yes, count,” Keedar said as meekly as he could manage, a sense of relief sweeping through him that his father had not forced the issue.

  “Because I would hate to discover that you were seen with that dreg once more.”

  Winslow said nothing.

  Gift for a Son

  “Lieutenant Sorinya has returned, my lord,” the attendant called.

  “Send him in immediately.” Count Cardiff tapped a finger on the Farlands map. According to the markings, several Dracodar tribes still existed across the Renigen Sea, slaves to the advanced yet savage race of yellow-haired men he knew only as Farlanders. Ainslen closed the book, removed his glasses, and waited.

  A moment later, Sorinya entered. In one hand he carried a sack. With him came the sharp scent of death. The Ebon Blade was wider across than one side of the double doors. Whenever he stepped through a shadow, it often seemed as if he disappeared. Mosquitoes swarmed toward him, drawn to not only the blood but also to the man’s sweat.

  It took a monumental effort for Ainslen not to engage his shi. But by using it to tell if the effect employed by Sorinya was a melding ability, he would possibly expose his own skills. Sorinya had proven his loyalty for many years, but there were some things that had to remain secret under any circumstance. By the Dominion, the man was unnerving. Ainslen set his glasses aside on the table. He regarded the sack, and then rolled his eyes. “Was that really necessary?”

  “You asked for heads, father. I brought you …” he emptied the sack on the carpet, “heads.”

  Hair matted with dried blood, three heads tumbled across the carpet before bumping into a chest of drawers. On the cheek of each was a snake tattoo. The dead eyes of two boys and a girl stared accusingly at him.

  Ainslen gripped the arm of his chair so hard the wood cracked under the pressure. “You have gone too far now,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Eyes narrowed, Sorinya peered at him, and then grinned. “Have I?” Sintu flared several inches from his body, his essence hardening.

  Realizing Sorinya’s goal, Ainslen brought his anger under control. “Yes, you have, but this is neither the place nor the time to teach you a lesson.”

  “And here I was looking forward to class.” A hint of disappointment colored Sorinya’s tone. The glow around his body subsided to a hair’s length above his skin.

  Ever since he adopted Sorinya, the Thelusian had tested Ainslen, always attempting to see who was the strongest between them. Although he had taken him in quite a few years beyond the optimal age for integration into the Blades, he never thought Sorinya would have wanted to be among his own people. Not after the way he’d been showered with privileges and riches.

  How wrong he’d been.

  At eight, Sorinya took to the books, reading about his race, visiting their buildings and communities in Kasandar. In his teen years, he’d gone on a pilgrimage to his homeland and returned a changed man, adopting many Thelusian ways, including a willingness to test his soul against Ainslen whom he considered to be his father and master. As told by the warrior caste that led the Thelusians, a boy earned his freedom, his right to declare himself a man by defeating his parents. Since Sorinya saved Kenslen from the same fate as Marjorie that night in the Smear, his challenges had become more frequent. The Thelusian’s willingness to risk his own life back then was one of the things stopping Ainslen from killing him.

  “It will be a while yet before I allow you to have what you seek,” Ainslen said. He liked dealing with the Blades. Despite knowing their upbringing, they acted with as much arrogance as the nobility themselves.

  Sorinya shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m trying to help you. By custom, you will have to face me in a year anyway. I would rather you do so now than when I’m in my prime.”

  A year. The Thelusian would be thirty then. Well beyond the age the High Priests had declared he would live to see. Sorinya’s growth had dispelled many myths. The oldest being that only a full Dracodar could master at least seven cycles and live beyond his twentieth year. Developing into a Philodar was said to be a death sentence. Ainslen allowed himself a slight smile.

  “Anyway, what did you discover while in the Smear?” The excuse of a slight to the Cardiff name had been more than good enough for him to send the Ebon Blade.

  Sorinya slapped at his arm. “Blasted pests. Why not live outside if you’re going to keep your windows open and let in these cretins.” He smacked the back of his neck.

  “What can I say? I like the fresh air. Ignore them and make your report.”

  “There’s been an agreement between certain Consortium members, specifically the leaders of the Shipmen and the Coinmen.” Sorinya nodded to the three decapitated Shaded Snake members. “They didn’t know a lot, and they gave up what they had without too much effort. Supposedly the plans are old man Giorin’s work.”

  Ainslen growled under his breath. Ever since the Night of Blades, Delisar had sworn revenge to any who would listen. I knew I shouldn’t have dismissed him out of hand. “Did you manage to find anyone besides a Snake to question?”

  “Your spy says they’ve been advised to stay off the Smear’s streets and to refrain from their guild’s colors. He did lead me to an establishment where I would have been able to find at least one of the Shipmen, but there were twenty guards posted. As for the Coinmen, House Jarina has extended their protection to them.”

  Damn Cardinton. Always meddling. I should have had you killed years ago. Ainslen let out a deep breath.

  “Frustrating isn’t it?” Sorinya chided, “When you wish to fight a man, maybe even kill him, and you can’t?”

  “You keep that up, and I will see to it that you never join your people.” Ainslen gave him a flat-eyed stare. “I bet they could use you now, especially with this Farlander threat.”

  Sorinya’s face became a twisted mask. His fist clenched. With it came a ripping sound as his right arm burst through his shirt. Black muscles bulging, it was twice as big as the left.

  For a brief, panicked instant, Ainslen almost tapped into his soul, but the threat disappeared almost as quickly as it manifested.

  “Father or not, I will let you know now,” Sorinya turned to leave, “I will not stand by when they do attack. If it means coming in here and tearing you apart limb by bleeding limb,,” he shrugged, “so be it.”

  Ainslen watched the door close on the Thelusian’s wide back. When he could no longer smell the Ebon Blade, he snatched a mosquito from the air and popped it into his mouth. A smile spread across his face with the feeding. He wondered what Sorinya would do if he discovered the truth. He pulled on a rope next to the door. Moments later, an attendant peeked in.

  “Send for my son. Tell him I have a gift for him.”

  A Day in Training

  “Father, this is Winslow Cardiff, Count Ainslen’s son.” Keedar stood with his back to the white ash tree. It was good to be in the Parmien once again, inhaling the gummy scents and listening to the bird song. He
sighed contentedly. The sun warmed his face while a cool breeze threaded the air.

  “I’ve heard quite a bit about you from my son.” Lips pursed, Father squinted at Winslow like he were an intriguing piece to a puzzle he had been working on, acting as if he was now seeing the noble for the first time and had not already followed them to this clearing.

  “Is that good or bad?” Winslow fidgeted with his gloves.

  For once, Winslow had worn something more mundane and suited for the Parmien Forest. Fall’s chill was beginning to set in, and the light leather and close-fitting thick linen would keep him warm but not hinder any movements. Father was similarly dressed. For his part, Keedar had scrounged together what he could find in Rockbottom Plaza that he hoped wouldn’t make him seem so poor in Winslow’s eyes. Still, the young noble’s choice in wear and musky perfume made him feel inadequate.

  “It’s good enough for me. If it were bad, you would know.” Father gave Winslow a warm smile, one that should make him a bit more comfortable than he appeared.

  “So when do we start?”

  “Patience,” Father said, “is the first lesson you will learn.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  Keedar snapped his head around to Winslow. This was the first time he’d ever seen the noble be meek.

  “I have a few rules. First, you must never reveal anything I teach you to anyone else.” Father paused, again squinting. “Judging from what I see, someone had been suppressing your soul for some time, possibly years. If you practice some of what you learn here when you’re in public, you must restrict it to what Lestin teaches you. Any other touching of your soul will give us away. Unless in defense of your life, use nothing I teach against another person.”

  Winslow frowned. “Will some experienced melder not see that I’m using my soul anyway?”

  “They will, but that’s natural. We use our souls in one form or another every moment of the day. With the rigors the drillmaster is putting you through, people will expect your energy to grow on its own. Nothing I teach at first will exceed those levels.”

  “Fine.”

  Delisar’s sintu increased around him, enveloping Winslow. The young noble shuddered.

  “Do you agree to follow these rules?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Now, you’re bound. Should you break your word, I’ll know. Not only will I refuse to instruct you further, but there’s a chance, depending on why you broke the contract, that myself or one of my own may pay you a visit.” Delisar’s eyes and face became flat, his eyes dead. “That wouldn’t be good for you.”

  Winslow swallowed. “Understood.”

  “Good.” Father beamed, his mood changing. “Now, for the first lesson. Developing your soul is as much an everyday task as exercising. The two often go together. So, for today, you will run with Keedar. Try to keep up as best you can. If you do well enough, I’ll teach you the first requirement a person needs in order to meld; the most important and overlooked part of being able to see and manage your soul.”

  “I have learned the basics before.” Winslow puffed out his chest. “I—”

  “What you’ve learned before means nothing to me,” Father said calmly. “Every instructor is different. And that’s another thing … you will do as I say when I say without question. If you feel differently, we can end this now.”

  “Sorry, sir. It will not happen again.”

  “Good. Now, if you’re ready, we will begin.”

  “What of the derins.” Licking his lips, Winslow peered into the thickest foliage, eyes shifting from side to side.

  “I’ll always be nearby,” Delisar said. “They won’t attack you if I’m close. I doubt you’ll see them anyway, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there or they don’t see you. They’re particular about who and what they eat. Which reminds me … next time you come here, wear no perfume. It reeks. Come with your natural scent or not at all.”

  Winslow nodded.

  “What about their leader? The female?” Keedar couldn’t help the slight flutter that came with his memories.

  “I have someone keeping an eye on her. Now, go, run.”

  Not wanting to give himself or Winslow any chance to hesitate further, Keedar took off. He headed for a patch of spruce and pine that wasn’t too thick, their leaves a spongy carpet on the ground, their scents a welcome respite to Kasandar’s stench. Calculating that if he ran for half his normal speed it would be a good test, he weaved his way among saplings and brush, the green of leaf and brown of bark as much a part of him as his own skin. He’d gone maybe two hundred feet when an incongruous scent—several spices he couldn’t place—broke him from his enjoyment.

  Winslow was a step behind him. And Keedar hadn’t heard his footsteps. The unexpected happened then, as Winslow not only drew even, but pulled ahead. Sweat showing from exertion, the noble ran as if he’d done it his entire life.

  The nimbus created by Winslow’s unconscious use of sintu waxed and waned unevenly, but its spurts were so powerful Keedar felt it pushing against his own. He gaped with the realization that this was Winslow’s natural state, carefree, lively, and not the glum, brash, at times arrogant, and rather distant individual he portrayed. Winslow glanced his way, the corners of his lips curved up, but his eyes focused. The intensity written on his features told Keedar of his other traits: fierce determination and competitiveness. Winslow believed that if this was a race, he was going to win.

  Keedar couldn’t help his own smile as tingles eased through his body at the challenge. In small bursts they spread from his core in rhythmic charges, the type that once lifted the hair along his arms when lightning struck one of the spires in the old temple dedicated to Keneshin, the Grey God of Storms. He tapped into his soul, drawing from nonessential parts he didn’t require for running, concentrating the energy on his pumping legs and arms. With this—tern—the last ability in soul magic’s first cycle, his speed increased. If he decided to, he could travel four times his current speed. Instead, he tempered his pace until he led Winslow by a dozen strides.

  A glance over his shoulder showed Winslow driving harder to keep up, his cheeks expanding and deflating like a fish washed up on the shore. Winslow’s nimbus grew stronger, the trees and brush seen through it a mélange of greens, yellows, and browns. But without the control to apply his energy appropriately, his speed didn’t increase to match.

  Refocusing ahead before he crashed into a branch or tripped over roots, Keedar maintained his pace. The second part of this test would be endurance.

  Three hours later, Keedar finally drew to a halt near one of the forest’s many pools, the sun’s rays glinting from its surface like a golden jewel. The wildlife scattered at his approach. He was drinking his second fill from his water pouch when Winslow broke through the trees near the pool’s edge. Face flushed and gasping for breath, Winslow stopped and bent over. Sweat dripped from him.

  “Here,” Keedar tossed him the refilled pouch.

  Winslow looked up just in time to catch the leather container. He gave a grateful nod in Keedar’s direction before he threw his head back and guzzled. Within seconds, he was coughing and sputtering.

  “Take your time. You wouldn’t want to choke to death.”

  After a few more gulps, Winslow wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “H-H-How long did we run for?”

  Keedar glanced to the sun, now well on its curve toward evening. “At least three hours.”

  “I—” Winslow held up his hand and took in a few more deep breaths. When his chest finished heaving, he said, “I have never run like that before. I mean, I have always been better than the others when we spar, but we have yet to do anything like this even when my father,” he paused, brow wrinkled, “when Count Cardiff brought in a Marish swordmaster.”

  Keedar snorted. “Considering the way you nobles are quick to behead a man for making you look bad, I’m certain the swordmaster must have taken it easy.”

  “Whatever.” Winslow mopped his b
row, drank some more, and then poured water over his head. “This wasn’t so bad. Not nearly as rough as what my drillmaster does.”

  “I could have made it harder on you, but I saw no reason to.” Keedar had heard the nightmare stories of the Blades’ vaunted training. Father claimed some of it was necessary, but that each student should be judged on his or her own merits. The Blades were different, Father said, because they trained men to kill.

  “How do you think I did today?”

  “That’s for my father to say, not I.”

  Winslow sighed. “So where is he, and what now?”

  “Now, we wait.” Keedar settled down on a boulder to do exactly that.

  The third part of the test had begun.

  In truth, Winslow’s performance had been surprising. For a person who had not gone through years of practice, he had an uncanny grasp of tern, able to take a bit of soul from one part of his body and apply it to another. Keedar was uncertain if it was a natural occurrence or if it had been induced. Delisar would be able to tell difference. Those adept in tern would excel at the corresponding median cycle, hyzen, which allowed a person to shift nearly all of their soul to a specific body part, thus making it incredibly strong or flexible. It weakened the unprotected parts, but the benefits and need defined its use. Keedar smiled, the sun warming his face, the prospect of watching Winslow’s development exciting him.

  Afternoon dragged into evening with not much passing for conversation between them. On several occasions, Winslow opened his mouth, but then closed it without sharing his thoughts. By his pinched expression and grinding jaw, he was frustrated, but he refused to voice his displeasure. The day birds and animals chittered into silence, and owls and the night’s denizens took up their calls. Antelen rose, casting its silvery glow across the land and water to honor the Goddess after which it was named.

  “Not bad at all.”

  Keedar didn’t react to his father’s voice, but Winslow started. The young noble scrambled to his feet. Expecting an outburst, Keedar waited, but none came. Instead, Winslow dipped his head to Delisar.