Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  “What happens if only two of the rings change?” Keedar asked.

  “Then that person becomes like Sorinya, a Philodar, a master of seven cycles and three melding types. So far, gaining the quintessence appears limited to Aladar and Dracodar.”

  “In other words, it can only be activated by those who can master at least eight cycles and four types,” Keedar added.

  “Actually, no,” Thar said. “It was once thought to be restricted to Dracodar, whose scales become golden once they achieve the cycle. Na-Rashim proved that theory to be incorrect, although no other Aladar has achieved what he did. Those who study these things concluded that one must master all ten cycles to have any hope of activating the quintessence, but one does not have to master all the melding types.” He let those words sink in for a moment, the memory of the Farlanders surfacing before he pushed it away.

  “I told you this because you’ve just earned the right to call yourself melders, having become adept at the first three cycles, and developing a degree of use for the next three. Of the four remaining regular cycles, Keedar, you can touch lumni, while Winslow still lacks the ability to access any of them thus far.

  “The Blades are all masters of six; some adept in two or more types of melding. All of them can touch at least one of the last four. The Farlanders surpass them in skill, some capable of challenging the legendary Blades of old. The ones that wounded me could touch the quintessence.”

  Winslow’s expression was one of child-like wonder. “Uncle, can you—”

  “You didn’t tell us all that to amaze us, did you?” Keedar asked quietly, a scowl marring his features.

  Cocking his head to one side, Winslow regarded his brother. “What do you mean?”

  “Ask him.” Keedar nodded in Thar’s direction.

  “Uncle?”

  “He’s right,” Thar said. “I did not reveal that as a goal for which you should strive, but so you could understand what it is we face, to dispel any misconceptions about what you can accomplish against them. Your abilities are meager. The men and women who will come here are Blades and Farlanders. The two of you would be an annoyance to them. That is why you must leave.”

  Thar focused on Keedar. “That is why you mustn’t involve yourself in any fashion. Never challenge one of them until you are much more skilled. Both of you show signs of developing the quintessence. That cycle saved our race during the Blight and the Culling. With it, some of the Dracodar were able to purge the disease that prevented reproduction. Now, promise to do as you’re told.”

  Keedar broke eye contact first. “Yes, Father.”

  “That is not to say you won’t have a purpose,” Thar added. “I have a task for you, one you can accomplish on your way to safety.” He called Stomir over and told them of his discovery concerning the ereskars. “You should come across a few Farlander ships along the Ost. Keep an ear out for reports of strange animals and where those ships might be headed.”

  The mission brightened Keedar’s mood a bit, which pleased Thar. Winslow was like a child, fascinated by the idea of the ereskars. After a few hugs and well wishes the three of them disappeared into the eastern part of the Treskelin.

  After they left, Thar called Heart to him. “Fetch Na-Rashim.” The derin bounded off, and Thar settled down on the porch to wait.

  24

  News in Shalgere

  Rain’s fresh scents filled the Treskelin, the water a welcome change to the forest’s humidity. The massive ash trees were great ghostly sentinels that spoke to each other in rustles, clacking branches, and dripping water. The run through the forest reminded Winslow of the Fast of Madness, requiring similar control on soul.

  Every six hours they stopped to take a short rest, eat dried meat and fruits, and drink from their water pouches. They kept moving until Antelen was a great silver orb in the sky, then they slept for some five hours, rising before Mandrigal’s first rays pricked the eastern skies. On most nights they were so exhausted they fell asleep as soon as they got the chance.

  Winslow dreamed of Jaelen, and what it would be like to raise the boy. Who did his son resemble? When was the boy conceived? He recalled many nights spent with Elaina in the upstairs rooms of Jarina’s Hands, nights of unfettered pleasure when she wished to dissuade him from visiting Walker’s Row. Interspersed among those were dreams of freeing Delisar, of living some semblance of a normal life again.

  As they made their way through the forest, Stomir pointed out signs of bears, korgan cats, derins, wolves and other predators. Most were hunting the animals that migrated from the border of Kasinia into the Treskelin’s northern edge. Few seemed interested in the group. Winslow supposed if he were some beast he would think twice before attacking three melders. Not once had they spotted any other people. By the time they reached the forest’s eastern outskirts Winslow was sick of the woods. Snow met them on the sixth day, and they followed the derin.

  “You’ve been very quiet of late,” Winslow said to Keedar. His brother was striding next to him, expression grim, as it had been ever since leaving Keshka.

  “Not much to talk about.”

  “We’re being sent to a place we don’t know much of … my uncle, your father, might soon do battle against men who almost killed him, and then there’s this mission to look for creatures many consider little more than myth, and you don’t think there’s much to talk about?”

  “What purpose would talking serve?” Keedar said, scowling. “We can’t change any of it, no matter how much we might wish to.”

  Winslow understood his brother’s frustration. He’d experienced the same feeling when Ainslen hadn’t allowed him to take the Trial of Bravery. “Do you think the old man will be fine?”

  “I tell myself that he will, but the truth is, I don’t know. If they defeated him once, they could do so again.” Keedar sighed heavily.

  “It was an ambush,” Winslow argued. “Keshka expects them this time, and he has the derin pack.”

  “Memories of the fight between Delisar and Sorinya still haunt me,” Keedar said. “The Blades alone are bad enough, but with these strange Farlanders … I, I just don’t know.”

  “Keshka caught us from a two thousand foot drop. I’m ready to trust in what he says.”

  “It’s not a lack of trust. I’m worried—no, I’m frightened for him. I’ve lost enough already as it is.” With the admission his brother’s expression softened, shoulders slumping.

  They drifted into silence, broken only by the rustle of their footsteps through humus, or the twitter of birds and calls of beasts. Winslow wondered what he would be doing at this very moment if his life hadn’t changed. He envisioned himself playing with Jaelen, perhaps marrying Elaina, and becoming the new Count Cardiff, leader of Mandrigal Hill. Other than the idea of his son, none of it brought a sense of joy.

  They continued to follow Snow and soon came upon a house. It was tiny, one room at best, set among the branches of a white ash tree. If not for Snow scaling the tree like a tawny korgan, they would have missed it, such was the way the leaves and branches had grown into the home, forming the door and windows. Snow pawed at the door.

  A moment later it opened, and a short Kasinian man in a sleeveless shirt and dark trousers peered out. He disappeared inside and returned with a pile of furs. He threw them to the ground and then followed, scaling the tree hand over hand like one of the long-limbed gomerans that chittered and leaped in the branches above.

  “Greetings,” the man said as he approached them in a lazy, carefree walk, “I’m Perlar, the Consortium’s man in this part of the Treskelin. Keshka’s message said to expect you.”

  “Greetings,” Stomir replied. Winslow and Keedar nodded to Perlar.

  The man gestured to the furs. “Your clothes are there. And you can see your horses from here.” He pointed through the trees. Three dun mares waited
. Beyond them was an expanse of snow that seemed to stretch forever. “I would advise you to wait at the edge of the forest just where the cold begins for your body to become accustomed to the change in temperature. I’ve seen it make men collapse when they’ve lived too long in here.”

  “Anything special about Shalgere that we ought to keep in mind?” Stomir asked.

  “The soldiers at the gates are our men. Only a few Blades are present, sent to prevent the occasional Kheridisian raid. The Consortium still has a presence there, but most stay out of sight.”

  “And the Farlander ships?”

  “Most of those keep out to the deep waters. They’ve been coming up the Ost regularly since Ainslen took the throne. You’ll see one or two of the Farlanders in town, but I’d avoid them if I were you. They have a thing for challenging those they see as strong in soul.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Stomir said. “What of our ship?”

  “The Gilded Lady, already docked at the last pier, just waiting for you three. Captain’s Abrila Ezrakel.” Perlar squinted at the sky. “I’d get going if I were you. Storm’s coming, wouldn’t want to get caught in one of those this year. Let the horses lead once you leave the woods. They know the way better than you do.”

  They dressed in thick woolens, fur vests, hats, and long, hooded cloaks. The garb was stifling and Winslow couldn’t wait to be out into the cooler air. They left Snow with Perlar and guided their horses to a point where the melding of the great ash trees began to fade at the forest’s edge.

  Winslow stared out across a windswept plain, snow swirling up from the mounds of white stretching in every direction. He couldn’t help the sense of unease that was building within him. Thus far, the trip had proven too easy. He’d become accustomed to misfortune.

  Storm clouds churned across the sky, a mass of living grey that cut out the already waning sunlight. The trees between them and the River Ost were bent pines, hoarfrost coating limbs like moss, long, pointed fingers of ice dangling. Snow flew in Winslow’s face, clinging to the cloth that covered his mouth and nose. Ice coated the closest parts of the river, a frosty windowpane that surrendered to murky, slow-moving water. Sails pregnant, ships headed north up the Ost, toward the lights of Shalgere, their movement sluggish at this distance.

  “Use tern to lessen the effect of the cold,” Stomir instructed. “When you no longer feel bothered by the change, you can drop it. No melding whatsoever when we reach the town.” With that, he kicked his horse to a trot.

  Riding from the forest out onto the open plain was like stepping from a blacksmith’s forge onto a freezing mountaintop. Winslow shivered despite his clothing and was glad for the wool-knit gloves under his leather ones. Keedar rode a step ahead of him, cloak pulled around him. It took them the better of an hour to reach the port town, and all the while the tightness in Winslow’s shoulders grew.

  Shalgere was a town of multi-storied buildings, most of them timber. Beneath the layer of icy mud and slush were hints of cobblestones. The smell of brine and horse drowned out any other scents. Smoke rose in plumes from many a chimney. The lack of travelers wasn’t surprising, not with the threat of a storm borne on the wings of slate-colored clouds. Those on the roads were often soldiers, most of them wearing Kasinia’s red and gold uniforms, with the occasional blue of Darshan tossed in. They paid little attention to the group.

  The piers stretched their fingers out into the ice-flecked river. Ships basked, masts jutting into the sky, as varied in length and color as type, from slim trade vessels to the larger, broader seafarers out in the middle of the Ost. There were even a few Farish Isle lidahunters, javelins loaded in the large ballistae. Laborers hurried as best they could across black, slippery planks, loading vessels with cargo, much of it covered by canvas. The horses were sure-footed on the wood as if they’d practiced the walk a thousand times.

  The Gilded Lady was a sleek ship with five masts and a set of at least fifty oars. A gold-tinged carving of Hazline, cheeks puffed up in the act of blowing, adorned the prow.

  Captain Ezrakel waited on the deck, sucking on a pipe, hands on his hips. He was a dark-haired, swarthy Darshanese in a deep blue coat, broad across the shoulders, with a belly that would be the envy of any pregnant woman, and a bulbous nose with more of a bend than his fellow countrymen. Two Darshanese sailors took the mounts up the gangplank, and the group followed the men, joining the captain.

  “Hail, Stomir Hentereth, it’s been a long time,” the captain said around the pipe, accent smooth, tone jovial.

  “Hail Captain Ezrakel, and yes it has.” Stomir was smiling. “When was the last time again?”

  “That mad trip from Bradasha to Kasandar.”

  “Ah, yes, we stopped at Serente then, too, didn’t we?”

  “And I still say we should have avoided that port. You Kheridisians tax ships far too much.” The captain blew out a plume of smoke. Bloodleaf by the perfumed smell of it.

  Stomir laughed. “When you’re smuggling goods from the Farish Isles you have to expect to pay.”

  The banter and the realization that they were safely aboard the ship eased the tension from Winslow. He exhaled, long and slow.

  “Until this past week I was beginning to wonder when the Consortium would make its move, or if it would make a move at all, especially after rumors of a recent drubbing. And then the members began showing up.”

  Winslow frowned.

  “We’re just here for the trip.” Stomir leaned in closer. “Any word on the creatures sought by Keshka?” His voice was low enough that only their group could hear.

  “There’s been some talk by the few merchants who venture out to the Farlands but no proof,’ Ezrakel said. “We’re only allowed in certain ports when we trade over there, but if I had to guess, I’d say such a beast could only be moved by their haulers.”

  “Haulers?” Stomir asked.

  Ezrakel smiled around his pipe. “You’ll know them when you see them. Makes a lidahunter look small.”

  “Hmmm.” Stomir nodded.

  “Anyway, we’re certain to come across at least one before we stop at Kasandar,” the captain said.

  “Why would we go to Kasandar?”

  Ezrakel removed the pipe from his mouth. He took a look around before he said, “To stop the execution, of course. The king finally set a date.”

  A clammy chill crawled up Winslow’s spine.

  “Execution? What execution?” Keedar’s hood had fallen from his head.

  “You mean you don’t know?” The captain’s thin eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Ainslen announced that Delisar Giorin’s execution is to take place on the day of his marriage to Terestere.”

  Keedar made a running leap from the ship.

  25

  Old Knowledge

  “We must do something, Stomir,” Keedar begged yet again. “At least let us inform my father.” Those two last words ate at his insides. As a father, Delisar was all he’d known for nineteen years of his life. He could no more deny the bond built over all that time than he could his beating heart. He considered another escape attempt, his fourth, but Captain Ezrakel stood at the door of the cabin, and Stomir and Winslow were too close. As they did before, they would stop him before he could leap from the boat or catch him soon after. The captain had men posted on the docks should he try.

  News of the pending execution repeated in his head as if he’d just heard it for the first time, a death knell that tolled repeatedly. “Winslow, he’s your father as much as he was mine, you can’t let this happen.” A tear trickled down his face.

  Winslow’s face was an agonized mask. “What can we do, brother? You heard what Uncle Keshka said, what he showed us before we left. Ainslen and Delisar will be surrounded by Blades and Farlanders. Without the rest of the guilds, without Keshka, without an army, we would be going to certain
death.”

  A horn blew outside, a low, mournful croon to announce the Gilded Lady’s departure from the pier. With the sound went the chance of escaping the boat without plunging into the icy water. He did not relish the idea even as he considered it.

  “Listen to your brother,” Stomir said. “He speaks sense. What purpose would it serve for you to die? Delisar … we all knew what capture meant when we began this, but there’s a purpose greater than any single life.”

  “Easy for you to say when it isn’t your father or family,” Keedar snarled.

  “Contrary to what you think, Delisar is my family,” Stomir said, voice strained. “We are all of the same brood.”

  “Then how can you do nothing?” Keedar shouted, lips trembling. He wiped snot from his nose.

  “I had Ezrakel send his fastest rider out to Perlar. Snow will deliver a message to Keshka. From there, we wait. Until then, we have a task: reach the mountains safely and discover if these ereskars are on the Farlander ships.”

  Keedar began to pace, mind reeling. He stopped, staring from Ezrakel to Stomir and back to Ezrakel again. “You said the king finally set a date. That means word of the execution had gone out before. How long ago?” The captain said nothing, but his eyes shifted to Stomir for an instant. “I asked how long,” Keedar repeated quietly. Heat boiled in his chest. His vision clouded.

  “Calm down, Keedar.” Stomir stepped between him and Ezrakel.

  “You knew too, didn’t you?” Keedar did not raise his voice. The fire of his emotions spread from his chest into his arms, his legs. It consumed him.

  “Knew what?” Winslow asked.

  “And Keshka? Did he know also?” Keedar demanded. Stomir nodded, lips downturned. Quivering, tears gone, Keedar turned to his brother. “The execution is news to us but not to anyone else.”