Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  “I assigned Lieutenant Costace because he should be a familiar face and would perhaps dispel such bitter sentiment,” Ainslen said. “Unfortunately, the guard is necessary. Not so much to watch you, but more to dissuade those who might wish you harm. I’m certain there are one or two counts who wouldn’t mind your death.”

  “Very thoughtful of you, then,” the queen said. “My thanks. And yes, I do seem to recall the man. He’s currently on another assignment, pursuing leads as to the attempt on your life.” The king’s brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, and Terestere smiled.

  “Yes, he is.” The king frowned for a moment more before his face smoothed. “Well, you’ve had a most arduous ordeal, I’m sure, fleeing with Adelfried and Cardinton. Where might I find them?”

  The question seemed so sincere the queen couldn’t help a twitch of her lips. “Who knows? They could have fled to any number of places.”

  He tapped a finger to his cheek, studying her. “Ah well, I had hoped. Tell me, did you know ginger spice was Marjorie’s favorite scent?” His voice was deep and even, but his eyes had narrowed slightly.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wear it to mock me?”

  “No, I chose it because I know you favor it.”

  “And the night at Count Cardinton’s ball … you wore it then, too. You touched my hand, smiled, flirted with me …”

  “Ah.” She suppressed a smile at his memory. “Jemare and I argued earlier that day. I wished to make him jealous.”

  “So you used me.”

  She shrugged.

  “Another person would have lied about it to me, seeing that people say I’m a monster.”

  “Are you?”

  “Several members of your family were executed upon my order. I killed your husband, tore him apart with my bare hands.” Ainslen lounged in his chair, one arm flung across the back. “Wouldn’t you call that monstrous? How does it make you feel?”

  You’re trying to goad me, but I won’t allow you the satisfaction. “I don’t know what I feel. It’s a jumble of emotions, one moment there’s hate and anger, and the next, there’s sorrow and regret. But oddly enough there’s a sense of satisfaction, a little respect. You bested him in Far’an Senjin. In the physical sense, you killed him, but in truth it was the game that took him. I should hold no ill will against you.”

  “Foolishness, that last,” he scoffed, “ideas written on paper that pertained to an age when the Game of Souls was really a game. Now, it is more. It is life and death, the future of an empire, our blood. I took something precious from you. Reverse our positions and I would want you dead.”

  “I don’t wish you dead for killing Jemare. Perhaps, I should, but tradition has been ingrained into me.”

  Lips drawn into a line, he studied her. “When Jemare killed Tolquan, he also had the king’s wife executed. I remember her despair. A part of me expected the same from you, but you’re a stronger woman than she. Perhaps …” His voice trailed off.

  “Perhaps?” she repeated, appearing to hang on his every word.

  The king leaned forward. “There may yet be a reason to let you live.”

  And now the point. Time to change this particular game. Casually tossing her hand onto the armrest, Terestere smiled. “I could sit here and play the fool, be the quiet, obedient wife everyone saw when I sat beside Jemare, but I’m far from that.” Ainslen’s eyes narrowed. “We both have goals. Mine is to live and return to my former prosperity. Yours is to rule. Both goals are like river rapids: filled with sharp stones, pits, rough waters, and a possible fall at the end. Either we learn to float and ride the currents or we die.”

  He was scowling now.

  Terestere met his glare. “Jemare’s biggest flaw was his refusal to listen to the people. They hold more influence than we credit them, particularly the dregs.” She held up her hand as Ainslen made to speak. “Hear me out. I might not have been in Kasandar, but word followed me wherever I traveled. Upon my return, much has proven true. The uprisings among the dregs, the Marish rebels, your battle in Thelusia, attempted assassination, the Heleganese delegation you chased away to add another possible enemy, and then the rumors of the western kingdoms.” She paused for a moment to allow him to consider her compiled knowledge. “You too suffer from Jemare’s affliction, but with one difference.”

  Brow forming a lumpy mound, the king was looking at her in a different light now. Whether one that saw her as dangerous or with a modicum of respect, she was uncertain. She hoped for a bit of both.

  “Although he used them incorrectly, Jemare provided enough that the people did not hate him. He gave the Smear the guilds, allowed them commerce, the Grey Ward for their entertainment, and outside of the Day of Accolades and the Night of Blades, he left them to their own devices. The middle classes and the nobility had the black markets, goods provided from outlawed kingdoms, and the auctions. I was there for all of it, always at his side, providing for those he missed. The people could see me as someone to whom they could relate. A familiar, kinder face, one not as cruel as some minstrels and guisers paint you to be. You asked if I think you a monster. It is not my opinion that should trouble you.”

  “You’re too smart by half,” Ainslen said, voice soft and dangerous. “Perhaps you should have been the one enjoying the Soul Throne and its benefits instead of Jemare, or maybe I should simply have you killed.”

  “You could.” Terestere shrugged. “And it may be the right choice, but then you would be fighting too many battles on too many fronts. Losing would be inevitable.” Ainslen hated losing and at the same time he enjoyed a challenge. “To secure your legacy, you must first bring Kasinia to heel, starting with Kasandar, and then you must make the other kingdoms follow suit.”

  Ainslen chortled. “I really should have you killed.”

  “Is that a but I hear?” The old lust she knew so well glinted in his eyes.

  He gave a rueful shake of his head. “Poor Jemare, I always wondered why he chose you although you never developed into a melder.” She arched her brow, waiting for an answer. Ainslen sighed. “But, I propose a marriage instead.”

  “Ah.” She paused for a few moments of contemplation. “I will agree on one condition.”

  “Woman, you push your luck.”

  Terestere stood, smoothed her dress, and strode across the room, hips giving a slight sway to hold the king’s attention. She stopped at a table and ran her fingers across the gilded box she had a servant retrieve from her things. “You have a love for Far’an Senjin, and if my knowledge serves me true, history intrigues you.” She faced him. “Do you know Tet Dracogis?”

  “Dragon Gates? Of course. An ancient game, favored by the Dracodar kings, supposedly one that predates all others. Cortens and several other monarchs were avid players after they defeated the Dracodar. It fell out of fashion.”

  “Have you ever played?”

  He stood, the hint of a smile on his face. “I’m very good.” He strode over to her, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Even better.” She turned away from him and removed the square game board and its silver pieces from the box. There were forty pieces in all, painted red and white. They consisted of the two winged dragon kings, two Dracodar queens, four Dracodar warriors, four melders, four ereskars, four Aladar warriors, and twenty robed cyclers. She gestured to the game. “This is my condition. May I entice you to play?”

  “Against you?” Amusement trickled from his tone. He passed so near that she caught a whiff of his scent: fresh and strong.

  “I defeated Jemare several times,” she said. “Did you?” Ainslen missed a step. Terestere hid her smile. She’d purposely goaded him the way he attempted with her. On more than one occasion her dead husband mentioned their friendship and rivalry. In their youth, during King Tolquan’s campaigns, the two would play Dragon Gates. Ainslen n
ever beat Jemare.

  “Set it up,” he growled.

  She placed the pieces on the board, setting up his side, giving him red and the chance to have the initial strike or to defer. The dragon king and a Dracodar queen were first, set next to each other within the castle at positions 5 and 6 Mandrigal, the northernmost central squares. She placed two silver-limbed Dracodar warriors, one on either side of the king and queen. Next were two armored melders. Following the melders were two ereskars, oversized ears and four legs carved in detail, one per side. Lastly, on the first row, in the corners with the Dragon Gates, she placed Aladar warriors, arms done in bronze. The row in front of this foremost line was the vanguard. She filled those ten squares with robed cyclers. When she completed the placements for her side, Terestere smoothed her dress and sat. She met Ainslen’s cold stare.

  “I do not play games without high stakes,” he said quietly. “When I first visited I was willing to marry you to serve my purpose, but it seems you think too much of yourself. Ten games. If I should win all of them, I get your head.”

  “And my hand?”

  “You must earn the marriage.”

  She showed her teeth. “If you do beat me ten straight times, I’ll take my own life.”

  Ainslen’s eyebrows shot up. A moment later his expression grew hard. “You’re that confident?”

  “I am. In fact, I’m so confident I predict not only a marriage, but also an heir.”

  “The Kasinian Empire has no heirs,” he said coldly. “There is only Far’an Senjin.”

  “True enough, but I always thought a strong ruler should aspire to be greater than his predecessors.” The queen imagined the ideas tumbling through Ainslen’s head as he considered the proposal. A unified Mareshna. A lineage of Cardiffs. The name would become legendary like that of Cortens Kasandar.

  Ainslen’s eyes lit with greed. He smiled. “Your suggestion is intriguing.”

  “There are possible issues, though,” she said. He tilted his head to one side. “I heard you had a grandson, Elaina Shenen’s child, won’t he also have a claim to the throne. And what of your missing son, Winslow?” With Ainslen’s success, Winslow should have been the one to take over Mandrigal Hill. Instead the king had turned the house over to Katuro, a sinewy minor noble who whispered incessant prayers to the Dominion and had a history of supporting Ainslen.

  “Elaina’s child will never see the throne. And Winslow is most likely dead.”

  She was taken aback by the venom in his voice directed toward the newborn, and the lack of emotion toward Winslow’s possible demise. Was it a sign of a man who coveted what he now possessed, one who had come to terms with his son’s fate, or were there deeper undertones? Intrigued, she promised to revisit the idea at some point. She noticed the king’s frown. “What is it?”

  “The subject of children reminded me that you and Jemare only ever had Joaquin,” he said.

  “We had trouble conceiving.”

  “Such matters are the Dominion’s will.” The king was tapping his chin with his forefinger again. “For that reason I would have you visit Curate Selentus. The man has certain methods and potions that works wonders for fertility.”

  “You speak from experience?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, I agree,” she said. “Let us get on with the game.” She gestured to him, palm up, indicating he should begin. “Your move.”

  “I defer.”

  Lips drawn in a thin line, she made the first move, sending the cycler in front of her dragon king two squares forward. Moving that specific piece first gave one Dracodar the ability to roam the board with its three jumps in any direction as long as another piece of her own did not block its path. It was one of two ways that allowed a Dracodar to leave the castle before the king.

  The move, while exposing and freeing her queen, increased her chances of transforming a cycler into a melder once it crossed the soul cycle line. Melders could leap three squares forward or to the side, but not diagonally or backward, as opposed to a cycler’s one move forward under normal play and one diagonally when capturing an opponent’s piece. Additionally, that converted melder could become a dragon king that was no longer sealed to the castle. Converting a cycler first could cripple the opponent if they did not follow suit or did not capture the piece.

  “Aggressive.” Ainslen nodded, elbow on the table top, a forefinger tapping time on his temple. “And risky.”

  She made a steeple of her fingers. “There is no other way to play for one’s life. All or nothing. Cowering is for cowards.”

  14

  Out of the Trees

  Hoarse roars cut through the drum of rainfall. On the porch beside Keedar, Snow’s ears pricked up. A low growl rumbled deep in her chest. Keedar’s mind instantly shifted to thoughts of Winslow, but the roars originated from the wrong direction.

  Keedar leaned forward in his chair, squinting toward the tree line, trying to see by the meager light offered by the lamps on the porch. He expanded his vision. The trees became clearer, leaves distinct. He could almost count individual raindrops.

  The roars drifted closer. Snarling, Snow bounded to her feet, shoulders even with Keedar’s head, hackles raised.

  Fear for Winslow became a knot in Keedar’s gut. He recalled the day he finished his own trial, the battle and chase that followed. Heart aflutter, he picked up his bow, nocked an arrow, and aimed toward the Treskelin’s shadowy expanse. Snow leaped down the short flight of steps to stand in the center of the clearing.

  As the roars grew louder, their direction changed by slight increments, but always headed toward the cottage. Within moments came the sounds of bodies crashing through brush, branches snapping.

  Through the grey pebbles of rain a form appeared at the edge of the forest. A nimbus of soul waxed and waned around it. The person stumbled forward.

  Winslow.

  Keedar’s breath caught in his throat. If not for his enhanced vision he wouldn’t have recognized his brother. Face overgrown with hair, Winslow looked like a completely different person, his appearance conjuring images of the Wild Kheridisians. His clothes were rags that hung loosely from his body and arms. Winslow had left as a well-built young man and returned a gaunt, emaciated caricature of himself. Winslow took maybe a dozen steps before he collapsed face down in the mud. Keedar made to leap down the stairs when four shaggy shapes burst from the undergrowth.

  Bears. Massive black ones.

  Snow leaped at the first bear, barreling into its side. In a flurry of growls and snarls the two beasts tore at each other.

  Without thinking, Keedar loosed an arrow. It flew true, taking a bear in its neck. The beast shook off the attack, reared up on its hind legs, and bellowed in Keedar’s direction. When it dropped to all fours, the bear charged.

  Trying in vain to calm his shaking hands, Keedar nocked another arrow. The other two bears lumbered toward Winslow’s prone form.

  The slap of a bowstring cut through the animal noises. Two additional arrows jutted from the bear charging Keedar. The creature flopped to the ground, its momentum carrying it another few feet, skidding on its face and belly through a muddy pool.

  A man sprinted through the rain from the direction of the arrows, surrounded by the telltale nimbus of soul magic, blue cloak flapping behind him. The cloak swept past the man, flying against the wind. It continued to stretch, twice, three times its former length.

  Impossible. Keedar gaped.

  The cloak intercepted the bears. They reared up on their hind legs, swatting at the material. As if it were alive, the cloak dodged and then darted in like a snake, coiling around the animals. The man was a few strides behind.

  Flashes of steel and the fight was over. The two bears gave plaintive cries and crashed to the ground inches from Winslow. The cloak uncoiled, and shrank, becoming norma
l cloth, soaked from the rain, and plastered to the stranger’s back.

  Pitiful mewls broke Keedar from his shock. Snow was latched onto the last bear’s neck and had the animal face down on the ground. The bear gave two final kicks, and then lay still.

  Chest heaving, Keedar rushed to Winslow’s side. Winslow’s eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell evenly as if he was in a deep sleep. His face was sallow, his hair a tangled black mess, beard and mustache a bush. What had once been muscled arms were sinewy limbs.

  Footsteps squelched through mud and stopped next to Keedar. “I’m Stomir.” The stranger’s voice was gravelly and somehow familiar. “Keshka sent me.” He held out a gloved hand. They clasped arms. Hard blue eyes in a face like polished mahogany peered out from within the hood of his cloak, complementing a defined jaw and a slightly bent nose. Keedar had seen noses like that before, on guild members who often brawled in the Smear’s taverns.

  “Thank you,” Keedar said.

  The shrubbery near the tree line rustled. Keedar froze. Four derins padded out from the undergrowth, two white, two grey. Snow’s pack. A relieved sigh escaped Keedar’s lips. He returned his attention to Winslow.

  “Here, let me give you a hand.” Stomir bent to help.

  They picked up Winslow. Keedar hissed, not only at how little his brother weighed, but also at his stench. Winslow smelled as if he’d bathed in piss and shit. Keedar refused to think of what matted his brother’s hair. They carried Winslow inside the cottage to the bedroom and lay him on the bed. Keedar took a seat in the room’s lone chair while he pondered his next move. He had no experience with this type of situation.

  “He’s used up too much of his soul.” Stomir was squinting at Winslow. He had removed his hood to reveal hair the color of rust, tied in a ponytail that fell past his nape. A half dozen tiny silver or gold loops pierced each earlobe from top to bottom.

  “How can you tell?” Keedar asked.