Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  “You would. No matter what you two do, your hair is always too clean and your shoes too shiny. Which sailor or commoner you know that has polished boots? And we might not wash as often as you do, Gaston, but in the Quarter, a sailor’s face is not likely to be that filthy.”

  Gaston scrubbed at his cheek.

  “A lucky thing not everyone is as adept as you at spotting these issues. Shall we?” Winslow gestured to the door from which music and laughter drifted.

  “I don’t mind if I do.” Keedar led the way inside. Soon they were drinking, laughing, and carousing within the tavern’s smoky confines.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Gaston began, speech slurred, “what do you two do in the Parmien anyway?”

  Keedar exchanged glances with Winslow.

  “And don’t deny it,” Gaston waggled his finger at them, “I saw that look.”

  “You’re seeing things,” Keedar said.

  “I most certainly am not. My vision’s perfect.” Gaston leaned forward. “Come on, Wins, we’ve been friends forever, have we not? I followed you the last two weekends. Yes, yes, I know, you had someone dress like you to throw off anyone who follows, but you can’t hide that walk of yours from me. And you,” he pointed at Keedar, “you may take to the roofs, but it’s always at the same time, and my man watches you run toward the forest.”

  “I wish you would have decided to train with the Blades,” Winslow said. “It’s nothing like we imagined.”

  “So you said before. It can’t possibly be that hard.”

  “On the way home, I’ll show you what my arms, back, and ribs look like. As for the Parmien, I go there one day every weekend to lessen the shock of what my body will experience when I return to the drillmaster. Think of it like riding a horse: the more you do it, the more your legs and ass become used to the chafing and your mind to the exertion.”

  “And you?” Gaston turned his gaze to Keedar.

  “Derins.” Keedar shrugged. “My father hunts them, I told you.”

  “Ah. Coincidence then.” Gaston’s voice lowered. “I would be careful though. There are rumors spreading that you’re consorting with dregs, Wins. This doesn’t help,” he gestured around them, “but at least we’re disguised here.”

  “People can say what they please. As long as no one sees me, it matters not.”

  “And if your father gets wind of these little meetings?”

  “He won’t.”

  “But—”

  “Look, Gaston. It’s bad enough that my apprenticeship is more like torture than training. I need some freedom, some way to escape it all. The quiet of the woods and being here with you two sometimes feel like all I have that’s my own.” Winslow’s expression hardened. “I will not let anyone take that away from me.”

  “Fine, fine. I can understand that. I was simply warning you.”

  “Well,” Keedar said, “if you two are finished arguing over your social issues, I think I’ll have another drink, and a girl.”

  “Sounds as fine a plan as any.” Gaston grinned.

  Winslow signaled for a serving girl. “Where’s Rose been tonight?”

  “I have no idea. One of the girls said she didn’t come in to work.” Keedar wished she was there now. He could do without the way Gaston peered over his glass at them.

  The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Patrons came and left. The talk among the rivermen and sailors centered on rumors of a Farlander fleet somewhere east in the Renigen Sea. It mattered little to Keedar. If they wished to invade Kasinia, it would be months for them to round the Giant’s Horn to the southeast in Darshan, if they chose that route. He doubted they would. The storms in the Raging Sea frightened the hardiest seafarers. Trying to land anywhere else meant either crossing the Steppes of the World to face the Thelusians or fighting the Marishmen in their mountain strongholds along the coast. Supposedly no one had ever won such a battle.

  “Well, if it’s fine by you two, I’ll take my leave now,” Keedar said. Since Rose hadn’t appeared for work, he decided to pay her a visit.

  Lost in their own drinks, and the pleasure the Hangman’s serving girls provided, the two of them waved him off. He dropped a few coins on the table, left, and immediately made his way to the rooftops.

  Accompanied by Antelen’s pale strands and a chill wind, he approached Rose’s home in the Burrows, a twisted warren of lanes and storefronts in the River Quarter. The area smelled about as good as bilge water. As expected the window to her bedroom was lit. Standing directly across from it, he tried to see through the milky panes of the second floor abode, but could make out nothing. He shrugged, dropped down to the ground, and waited.

  Not many folk were about at this hour, which he liked. He would be able to tell if anyone followed him. A couple rivermen swayed by, singing some song, speech slurred and raucous. When he was certain of his safety, he crossed the street, and headed to the entrance in the alley.

  He smiled when he reached the door. The lantern hanging on its post cast its light on the single flower in a pot set against the wall. Rose was alone tonight. Keedar began to sing Maiden’s Caress, a song about a Marish serving girl who meets a Thelusian stonelord, turns out to be a runaway princess, and stops a centuries old war between the two kingdoms.

  He made sure no one was looking, reached behind the pot and picked up the key. Within moments he was on his way up the stairs still humming the tune. When he entered her home, he inhaled, taking in the spicy aroma of perfume mingled with food. He frowned at an odd metallic scent and another that reminded him of the woods.

  “Rose?” he called.

  She would often meet him in the kitchen or the sitting room, but she was in neither. Drawn to the bedroom’s illumination, he headed in that direction.

  “Rose?” Keedar pushed the door inward.

  She was lying on the bed, sheets blood-soaked, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

  Immediately, Keedar snaked a hand to his dagger. A rustle like a whisper of wind came from behind him. The woodland smell suffused him.

  Pine cones.

  Keedar whipped the dagger out and threw it. In the same instant, he leaped after the weapon. Something snagged his cloak. He surged forward, the sound of tearing material a roar in his ears.

  When his dagger hit the windowpane ahead, cracks appeared across its surface like spider webs. He hit the glass with his shoulder. Cold air greeted him.

  Drawing on his soul, he hardened his sintu and pushed it away from his body, blasting away slivers of glass. As he fell he twisted to make sure he could land feet first. The instant his sintu met the cobblestone’s resistance, he imagined it being a soft spring and made it so, pushing off as he landed.

  Something thudded nearby. A voice cursed.

  As fast as he could, he bounded across the street to an alley. Not daring to glance back, he used the walls to spring up between the two buildings. When he gained the roof’s edge, he pulled himself onto its surface.

  A scrabbling sound made him look down.

  Cloak spilling about him, a man was trying to climb the walls. He fell down, swearing in Marish. When he glanced up, and their gazes met, the man snarled.

  The scarred face sent a shiver through Keedar. He dashed away from the roof, fleeing to the Smear for all he was worth.

  Meetings in a Shrine

  A sharp pain to the ribs woke Winslow. Groggy with sleep, he cracked open an eyelid. The clouds bled. Or at least so it seemed on first impression. He rubbed at his eyes. It took him a few moments for his vision to adjust and for him to orient himself. The sky wasn’t bleeding. The hues were a combination of sunrise and lack of sleep.

  Pain lanced through his side again, distant, as if it didn’t exist. A muffled noise like someone trying to speak underwater made him turn his head. He had to do so slowly. If he shifted too fast, he’d suffer another headache.

  The sound came again. Definitely, a voice.

  With realization, the world rushed him all at once. The voice b
lurred into a face belonging to Drillmaster Lestin. The pain was the toe of the man’s sabaton striking Winslow in the ribs. Lestin insisted on wearing the armored boots even when he dressed in leather as he was today. With acknowledgement of the day came the cold. Winslow shivered, curling into himself.

  Another day of training had begun.

  He groaned and crawled to his feet. What misled him was the light in the sky. Every day before this one, he’d been awoken while darkness stole a piece of the morning. A foolish man would think the trainers had let him sleep late or that it was a reward for his effort since his apprenticeship began. He was anything but foolish.

  “Come now, sweets, it’s time to be up and at it,” Lestin said. “By the Gods, you stink.”

  Whether or not he did reek, Winslow couldn’t say. He couldn’t smell himself. Not even the chilly breeze carried his odor to him. But then, the inability to identify one’s own scent was indicative of drowning in your stench for so long, your nose had grown accustomed to the it.

  He had lost count of how long he had been training with the Blades. Most of it was a blur. The first few weeks saw him take quite a few beatings before his body screamed for him to rise. Now, he reacted much faster. Any other person might have given up. Many did. He figured that was the point of all this training. To him, the routines had nothing to do with learning how to meld, no matter how much Lestin said the opposite. They designed this abuse to find a man’s breaking point. Well, they’d have a long wait. He promised himself that much after his first set of broken ribs. After the tenth healing by a wiseman, he made it a solemn vow.

  He wondered if everyone went through these types of rigors, but he had no frame of reference, no one to ask. The other trainees here shunned him as if he had a plague. The Blades who visited the Grey Fist spoke to none but their own and their employers. Not one book in the library detailed their regimen. Similar to most things about them, it was steeped in secrecy. To make the situation worse, when he was allowed home on weekends, Count Cardiff kept the door to his chambers locked and his books hidden. Finding anyone who might have gone through the initiation was a waste. No such records were kept. At least not where he could access them.

  “You dreamin’, sweets?” The drillmaster’s slanted eyes narrowed to mere slits.

  “No, boss.”

  “Good.”

  “What’s today’s task, boss?”

  “Carryin’ rocks.”

  He didn’t bother to ask why. The wrong questions only led to more menial and backbreaking labor. Fulfilling the task meant monotony. He had quickly learned how to deal with repetition.

  “Remember, you came to us for this. Bein’ a Blade is more than just learnin’ how to meld. It’s about survivin’ the worst, bein’ faster and stronger than the next person, bein’ heartless, feelin’ no pain. Most of all, it’s about killin’, sweets.” The drillmaster licked his lips as if savoring the taste of his words. “Yes, it is, sweets. It’s all about the killin’.”

  Winslow shuffled over to the mound of stones. All he could think of was his upcoming break due in another week. An eternity away. When he returned, he would be sure to wear a nice scent, maybe lavender. It was one of the few things he clung to even as Lestin tried to strip it away.

  Days later, with fall’s chill settling in, Winslow stood looking into a hearth’s ruddy flames in Corten’s Shrine. He pulled his derin cloak around him before rubbing his hands together, blowing on them, and holding them out toward the fireplace. Keedar was late.

  He fought the urge to pace back and forth lest he draw unwanted attention to himself. The news he possessed had set him on edge. The idea of it all was almost too much to fathom. If it were true, then his life would change. He would see to it.

  For the first time in weeks, Count Cardiff’s door had been open. When he snuck in, his father was asleep, snoring at his desk. Next to him was his ledger for upcoming shipments. Winslow still found it hard to believe what he’d seen written in his father’s hand. Finally, the Dominion had shone their Light on him.

  To say the past months had been trying would have been an understatement. They had been downright frustrating. He dared not confront the count with his inquiries about his mother. And questioning the servants in a roundabout method proved to be similarly fruitless. Each one had been gradually replaced over the last seven years. Down to Miss Rathingire—his wet nurse and the Cardiff seneschal. The past attendants’ whereabouts were unknown, a secret as tight as a virgin’s split.

  Added to that was his apprenticeship with the Blades. The last few days had been especially rough with Lestin putting him through several physical and mental tests. These ranged from rigorous courses where he had to climb ropes, crawl through muck, shit, and all other manner of filth, split logs, carry firewood, lift heavy stones from one point to the next and back again, track a target in the forests at day and night, and at times spend a day where they denied him a meal but made him sit with a bowl of food in front of him. Once, they had him fill a large pot with a spoon. All that was in lieu of the beatings. Still, he held onto his vow.

  Through it all Count Cardiff acted as if he no longer existed. Soon enough, Ainslen would have to pay attention. He would make it so.

  Time and again, the concern he had for Elaina and their child threatened to burrow its way into his head. She had begun to show a bit. The day of the ill-fated dinner to celebrate their union would soon arrive. How he would deal with that was still a mystery.

  The one consolation for the time spent in the Grey Fist’s practice yards was his training with Delisar. He might be months to a year away from accomplishing his first meld, but at least he was learning. With Lestin, those months might be a dozen years. When he inquired after the methods the Blades used, Delisar repeated his mantra that no two teachers delivered their lessons the same.

  Seeking calm, Winslow took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and repeated Delisar’s first lesson—much the same as his father’s tutor had taught years ago. Meditation was the natural way to sense one’s life energy. The energy itself traveled around the body in specific patterns much like blood, following the same course as the veins. In his head, his soul appeared as three wispy circles, one within the other. They held the thirty-two vital points that controlled his its flow.

  Each circle contained their cycles. Two of the three outer cycles and one median were clearly visible to him. The remainder were a blurred jumble. All he required now was the first.

  He systematically tapped into sintu by applying pressure to the vital points, opening and closing them until they matched, allowing his essence to spread evenly to all parts of his body. A covering manifested to prevent the natural leakage of his soul. With it came a calm, floating sensation and his nimbus.

  When he learned that if a person’s soul leaked completely, it would be fatal, he asked how was it that anyone lived since the vast majority of people could not maintain sintu. Delisar’s answer was simplistic but made sense. As with blood, the body had a natural process to control the loss, namely the veins and the skin. For soul energy, the points restricted themselves when a person slept or when soul became deficient. Also, most humans didn’t use enough of their soul to create such a life-threatening situation unless they knew how to meld.

  Relaxed, Winslow opened his eyes. He held up his arm. The nimbus flowed around his body in a wavy haze a quarter inch from his skin. He often dreamed of possessing Delisar’s skill. His teacher’s sintu spanned at least six feet.

  “Risky, doing that here.”

  Winslow jumped at Keedar’s voice. His nimbus leapt in reflection of his fear. “Risky for you, not for me,” he answered trying to appear unperturbed.

  Dressed in the robes of the shrine’s serving boys, Keedar knelt near Corten’s statue, head bent in prayer. “You wouldn’t be saying that if someone from your house discovered you. I know it’s addictive, but you need to be careful until the Blades teach you.”

  Winslow opened his mouth to tell Keedar he would
do whatever he felt but stopped himself. Keedar was right, even if it galled him to admit as much. “I will make sure no one sees me. I wasn’t followed anyway.”

  “So you think,” Keedar kept his head down as he glanced toward a nearby wiseman who turned off toward another room. “Have you heard what happened to Rose?”

  “Yes, sad that.”

  “I was there. They used her to try to get to me. It was the same person who beat me.”

  “What?” Winslow’s head spun. He’d been extra careful. How had Count Cardiff discovered them?

  “It’s best if we don’t go to the taverns anymore. Even this is risky.” Keedar paused. “Having said that, what’s so important that I had to go through all this?”

  “A shipment.”

  “And? Please tell me you didn’t drag me out here for that? There’s been plenty shipments. What’s so special about this one?”

  Winslow could hardly believe the words as they left his lips. “Scales. Dracodar scales.”

  A Special Container

  Count Cardiff circled the group of soldiers. Each one possessed the typical large nose, full lips, and the midnight skin tone of most Thelusians. All had their heads shaved bald, oil glistening from their scalps as to be expected of the Thelusian warrior caste. He had to look up to every one of them. Unwavering eyes appeared as if they saw through him. On their hips, they carried their curved blades.

  “We will deliver an army of ten thousand,” Seligula said, his voice a sing-song lilt. He’d declared himself to be the army’s general, the leader of their Forebearers.

  Of average height, dressed in trousers and a tunic of some pale leather, Seligula appeared inconspicuous from a distance. Until one saw his eyes. They were a sharp blue like the waters around the Farish Islands on a clear day. Staring into them was akin to seeing into the depths of a murderous soul. Ainslen shivered when he considered what he felt when their gazes met. He avoided such a connection at all costs. It was worse than the reek of a corpse masked by perfume that wafted from the man.