He couldn’t help but to think of the times he’d watched helplessly on the Day of Accolades as the wisemen took children, or parents gave up their babies out of despair, hoping to avoid the murders, rapes, robbery, the squalor of the Smear’s streets. Many of those children were now King’s Blades, their parents nothing more than foggy recollections, stripped away and replaced with servitude to the Kasinian Empire. I might have been able to help some of them.
Perhaps his skill would’ve granted a chance to save Delisar, opportunities to help more of the Smear’s folk during Succession Day, given him the ability to fight Shaz and the others when they’d attacked Raishaar or after Shaz killed Rose. He trembled from the burden of losing so much when he might have made a difference. Since passing the Fast of Madness he vowed that none of it would happen again. He would not stand idly by while another person he cared for suffered. “What if I go after him?”
“You could try, but you wouldn’t get very far. Besides, how would you feel if I intervened in your trial?”
Keedar gave the question some thought. “Angry, annoyed, maybe I’d think I hadn’t truly completed it. But that’s me. Winslow lacks my experience with soul magic.”
“So you would take away his sense of accomplishment?” Keshka closed his book again.
“I don’t mean to, but—”
“You worry for him, which is admirable. However, some things a man must do by himself. Think of it as you would a babe. Coddle the babe for too long and you risk crippling him. Sooner or later the child must be allowed to take those first steps on his own, to fall on his face, gain those bruises. They are signs of advancement to be worn with pride, like the scars you bear from years running the Parmien and living within the Smear, the scars you earned during your test.”
Keedar inadvertently touched the area of his shirt that hid his knife scars. He thought of the night he’d left his best friend, Raishaar, to die. Frustrated, he continued on doggedly. “So why did you and Delisar coddle me?”
“We saved you from yourself and from Ainslen. You weren’t ready.”
“Would you stop me if I helped Winslow anyway?”
A smile flitted across Keshka’s tanned face. “I wouldn’t raise a hand; I wouldn’t need to.” The old man pointed toward the Treskelin Forest. “They won’t allow anyone to interfere.”
Keedar peered into the woods. He saw nothing but massive trunks, snaking roots, leaves, and brooding shadows. The uneasy sense that something or someone was there niggled at him, fingers inching down the back of his neck, making the hair on his arms stand on end. He shook his head. “There’s no one there. You mention these Wild Kheridisians, and yet I’ve not seen hide nor hair of them.”
“Can you see the air? The wind? When a Mesmer bends your mind can you see the soul he used to do it?” Keshka asked, chuckling. “No? But it still exists. Because you lack the ability to see a thing doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
Keedar groaned. “Now you sound like one of the wisemen, preaching about the Dominion.” Despite his doubts he fingered one of his daggers and kept his attention on the forest. Silence-filled moments passed before the sense of unease dissipated.
“The Gods are another story entirely, but my words apply to them and faith as well,” Keshka said. “Regardless of all that, who do you think followed you throughout your test, tried to hinder your passage?”
Keedar frowned. The things that chased him had been more like shadows than men. “I thought those were the shadowbearers.”
“Ah,” Keshka said, “the old tales of people who eat each other, folks driven mad by expending too much soul while melding, or for ingesting more soul than they could handle. What else did they do again?” The old man’s brow furrowed, and then he added, “Yes, I remember now … they’ve committed the worst crimes, raped and murdered and more besides.” He looked upon Keedar, smirking. “Sometimes a tale is just a tale.”
“So you’re saying they don’t exist?”
“I am saying they’re one and the same, that the stories have been wildly exaggerated. Does the name Wild Kheridisian inspire any true fear when you first hear it if you didn’t know the history? No, but the other name does. How else could the Kheridisians keep people away from their forests? Killing them indiscriminately would have drawn Kasinia’s ire as it has in the past.” Keshka stood. His expression softened. “This isn’t just about your brother, is it? What else troubles you?”
“Why did you and Delisar keep knowledge of my melding from me?” Keedar asked before he could stop himself.
“It was necessary.”
“Why?” Keedar refrained from saying more lest the coals of his emotions grew to a flame. Words can cost a man his head as surely as any blade. He had to grit his teeth against the spontaneous recollection of Delisar’s teachings.
“We kept it from you because King Cardiff, like Winslow, has the ability to tell lie from truth. You were brought to him as a simple dreg, one that helped the boys. If he discovered that you were aware of your melding, he would have taken you. The best lies are the ones you make yourself believe.” Keshka paused. “You blame yourself for Delisar’s fate, I can see it in your eyes, can tell by the way you’ve taken to training with such … vigor. Despite what you think, you wouldn’t have been much help in the battle. You would have perished, like countless others. As you are now it would take decades of practice to match an experienced Blade.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Would you rather be here or in the dungeons?”
“Here,” he replied glumly.
“Good. Both of you have come a long way in a short time, but you lack lessons in which the Blade’s are well-versed. Lessons in lethality. Everything about you is a weapon, can be used to kill … the smallest stone, a quill, a leaf, the very air.” Keshka gestured about him. “You won’t be able to challenge the more experienced melders, but I will teach you everything you need in order to survive.”
“I’m willing to learn whatever is necessary to see Delisar freed, whatever will prevent those I care about from dying,” Keedar said. The sentiment had been with him stronger than ever since Succession Day.
“Are you now?” Keshka gave a joyless smile. “So what stopped you from killing those hunters? You knew they were lying, that they were a threat, yet you looked to escape first.”
“It seemed the smarter thing to do at the time.”
“Smarter or less bloody?” Keshka did not give him a chance to answer. “Sooner or later you will use your power to kill again, whether you wish to or not. You must embrace that reality as well as understand that you cannot save everyone. People will die, people you care about, perhaps myself, or Winslow, or someone else. Are you truly willing to do what is necessary, or are those just words?”
Keedar swallowed. Although he’d vowed to prevent the suffering of those he cared for, he hadn’t stopped to consider that they could still die regardless of his efforts. And he had another issue, the fear of taking a life. Again.
He glanced down at his hands. He could see the blood on them. Forgotten in the heat and fear of pursuit, killing Gaston hadn’t invaded his mind until the night they first reached Keshka’s cottage. His dagger piercing Gaston’s chest had since occupied much of his waking moments, found him in sweats many a night. The surprised look in the boy’s eye, the gurgle of death, and the smell of blood were all too real. He doubted if he was prepared to experience such again, or if he would ever be ready.
And yet a part of him had felt satisfied during the act. He’d buried the feeling deep inside himself, hoping he was wrong.
“I know that look. Uncertainty. Horror at the thought of killing,” Keshka said. “Doubt will see you dead. The horror, though, that’s fine. If you should no longer feel that loathing, and instead enjoy killing a man, then, you should worry.
“You and your brother wish
to help save Delisar, perhaps you seek vengeance, but such things come with a price. Didn’t you consider that the goal you set meant Ainslen’s death? Learning to become a melder was a step. Too often a young person accomplishes their first meld and then try to do too much. Such mistakes have led to many a ruptured organ or death.
“You need to know what it is you do, to be able to judge your limitations. It will save your life. Success will come from persistence. It’s a fleeting thing; it likes to run. Obtaining success isn’t a matter of Hazline and the Thirty-Two Winds of Fate. You do not wish upon the stars and wait for the Gods to deliver your goals. You seize them. And when they’re in your grasp, you do not let go. Ever.” Keshka’s expression hardened, from teacher giving a lesson to a commander issuing an order. “Do not go into the Treskelin.”
“He’s my brother. I have to help.” I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to him, and I didn’t at least try. Keedar left the words unsaid. Something was going to happen, regardless of what he did.
“The only thing you have to do is believe in him. Chance enough will come when he needs you. I could mark you to make certain you don’t disobey me, but I will trust you to heed my words … and to be a man, not some willful boy. Now, practice, starting with your knife and sword work first, and then with improving your ability to retrieve some of your soul after you’ve used lumni.” With that, the old man tucked his book under his arm and headed inside, Snow padding after him.
Thoughts tumbling through his head, Keedar stared after him for a while. Finally, he returned his attention to the forest. “You better make it back.” He drew his daggers, summoned sintu, and began to train, throwing his all into every swing and slice lest the sense of helplessness overwhelmed him, or he was forced to disobey Keshka, attempting something he would later regret.
7
The Thing
The wind howled, a rabid beast that whipped against Winslow’s icy shelter, enraged at its failure to reach its prey. When the first storm descended, over a month had passed since the Fast of Madness began. Several more storms had battered him since. Mired in the darkness of his confines he’d lost count of the following nights and days. Had it been two more weeks? Three? Four?
His belly said it had been longer. It was a cavernous hole, its sides clawed by hunger pangs. He was certain the interior of the dome smelled of shit, piss, and sweat, but he couldn’t tell. His nose had grown accustomed to his filth. Nothing solid passed through his system anymore, just liquid from the ice he held over his mouth to drink as it melted. One corner was his outhouse, and it might have well been perfume. His lips curved with the thought, but even that little smile hurt.
How long could a person survive on water alone? The constant spasms in his gut said not much longer. His hands and legs shook as he hugged his knees close to his emaciated chest and rocked back and forth. When he touched his sides he could easily feel and count each rib.
The wind ceased. One moment, it was howling in protest, and the next … nothing.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The walls distorted the sound but he recognized it. Water falling from the tree branches.
A crunching noise joined the drip. Winslow held his breath. The noise drew closer. Muffled footsteps. He tightened his grip around his knees. The footsteps stopped at his shelter.
“Winslow?”
His breath caught in his throat. The voice was Ainslen’s. How did you find me?
“I miss you, son. Your place is with me, not out here in this purgatory. Come home with me to the Golden Spires. I’m king now. Your place is at my side.”
Winslow rocked back and forth harder and faster, trying to will the voice away.
“If you don’t come out, I’ll come in and get you.” It was a whisper, a hot breath against Winslow’s ear. He started, eyes wide, staring around in the darkness.
A cackle echoed outside, drifting away.
The walls around him became too close, too tight. He needed to get out. Yes. Outside. That was it. I must dig out. He scrabbled at the icy walls.
I will not leave the shelter once I create it, no matter what I see or hear. Unbidden, the mantra echoed in his head. He stopped digging.
A growl, low and fearsome and full of malice, rumbled outside the shelter. Footsteps moved away.
Chest heaving, Winslow sucked in air, long and deep. His racing heart slowed. He summoned sintu, and almost immediately his head cleared. Relieved, he sat in the darkness, urging himself to maintain his hold on sintu. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep.
******
“Wins, come on, it’s time to head off to Jarina’s Hands.” Gaston’s voice rang with merriment.
A grin spilt Winslow’s features. Time spent with the girls in one of Kasandar’s finer establishments would wash away his concerns. Picturing those expert hands and mouths brought a rise he hadn’t felt in some time. He sighed, made to roll off the bed, and bumped his head.
What?
The world came rushing back. He had no feather-filled mattress and warm blankets, just hard-packed earth, cold to the touch, and air reeking of his waste.
“What’s taking you, Wins? The girls await, bosoms of every color and size, lips wet and warm enough to make the hardest man soft.” Gaston laughed.
The air grew thick once more. Winslow reached a shaking hand up to the slim length of branch jutting from the wall. He frowned, recalling that he’d snapped the first branch he had into three pieces. He was uncertain how he obtained the new stick, but it was stronger than the other, and did not break when he worked it around until the resistance of snow gave. After he pulled back the branch and placed his face to the hole, he sucked in sweet, cold air. Twilight greeted him when he put his eye to the long pebble-sized opening.
A good distance from the shelter, Gaston was dressed in a fine blue sweater and trousers, a derin leather cloak tossed over his shoulder. From the side profile, his face had its usual beauty, his jawline defined, ears and nose perfect. And then he turned. His other eye was a mass of bleeding flesh, the socket a dark, gaping wound. “Hello, Wins.”
Winslow stabbed the stick into place and fell back. He tried to scramble away but got no more than several feet before his back bumped the wall. Breathing hard, he stared at the stick, expecting it to move. It didn’t.
The peal of Gaston’s laughter rang out. Winslow slapped his hands to his ears and began to hum until he no longer heard himself.
******
Winslow lay next to a fireplace. Elaina stretched beside him on the thick furs and lamb’s wool, dark tresses of her hair forming a silky bundle beneath her. A man could drown in those deep brown eyes. He ran a hand along the swell of her belly. Even pregnant she had maintained her curves.
“He’ll be a count like you,” she said, voice tinkling like wind chimes.
“A king,” he boasted.
“I—” She gasped, face contorting in pain. She clutched at her stomach.
“What is it?”
“The baby … I think it’s coming.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now!” The last word stretched into a pain-filled yowl.
“What do I do?” he asked, frantic.
“Fetch a Mystic or Curate, or, or a chirurgeon.” She groaned. Sweat beaded her brow. She cried out once more.
Beneath her hand, her stomach shifted. Something smooth and round poked at the skin. Her back arched. Blood dribbled from her lower lips.
“No, by the Dominion, no. Creator help me,” he whispered.
He found himself frozen, watching in horror. A ripping sound echoed. Blood gushed from between her legs. Something round pushed itself out, covered in hair dyed scarlet. A head. It turned.
Shaz stared at him with those slanted eyes of his, one drooping, the Marishman wearing a grin that twisted the burns on th
e left side of his face. It was the same expression Shaz wore when he’d forced Winslow and Keedar to leap from the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows. Yelling, Winslow turned and began to dig at the walls.
I will not leave the shelter once I create it, no matter what I see or hear.
Winslow jerked awake. He sat bolt upright, chest heaving in the darkness as he struggled for air. A nightmare. A nightmare. His breathing calmed.
A scream rang out, the voice thick and full of pain. Delisar’s voice.
“Father?” he called without thinking.
“Help me. Dear Gods, help me.”
A sick, wet sound followed, a sound Winslow recognized. A blade chopping into flesh. More screams, worse than before, ending in a guttural wail.
On the verge of shouting for Delisar to hold on, Winslow remembered where he was. The forest, the clearing, inside his shelter.
“Winslow? Son?” Ainslen again, voice given distance by the enclosed ice walls.
Next would be Gaston, and then Elaina. She would try to convince him to come outside to see his son. Those tore at him the most. He wanted to see his boy, to be the father he himself never had. Plugging his fingers into his ears, he curled into a ball, and whispered, “I will not leave the shelter once I create it, no matter what I see or hear. I will not leave the shelter once I create it, no matter what I see or hear.”
Elaina visited but said nothing to him. She sang, hummed, and whispered endearing words to the baby he knew she would be cradling. He wanted so much to go to her, to hold them both. The need was overpowering, but he knew it wasn’t all his.
When she left, they came as one, all four, Ainslen, Delisar, Gaston, and Elaina. The taste of fear became bile in his throat, his heart, galloping hooves. They would try to get in again. Or climb in his head and urge him to come out. He almost broke once.
Shuddering uncontrollably, he clung hard to sintu, drawing on what little soul he could. He would not let them bend his mind. Without food his energy was almost completely depleted, but one thought resonated: Keedar. He had promised to return to his brother.
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