Souldrifter: The Dreamwielder Chronicles - Book Two

by Garrett Calcaterra

  The fake queen stepped back and smiled again, this one seemingly genuine. “Oh you are amazing, young queen, to tempt me so. You actually believe what you’re saying, which is endearing. But you’d be a fool to trust me, and besides, even if I bought into the notion a kingdom could be free, it’s much too late for that now. I’ve put into action a series of events that can’t be stopped. Even your feeble seer friend has foreseen it.”

  “Taera?”

  “Indeed, she’s been a busy little bee. She built an airship and had a message delivered to me. She’s foreseen my murder in her visions. Or your murder rather. Fina, your bodyguard has figured me out, and with no way of saving the real you down here in the dungeon and with no one to believe her except your fat scribe in the library, she will try to kill me in your body rather than let me cause further damage to the kingdom.”

  Makarria couldn’t believe it. She’d only known Fina for a short time, but she’d come to trust the woman, and she couldn’t imagine Fina killing Makarria’s body and condemning her to live the rest of her life in Lorentz’s broken body. The very thought frightened her more than death itself.

  “You don’t think she’s capable of it,” the fake queen said, guessing Makarria’s thoughts. “Likely she wouldn’t have done it of her own accord, but that’s the beauty of prophecy—more often than not it is self-fulfilling. Your seer friend has a vision and tries to warn you, but warns me instead. I pass on this foretelling to Fina, who pretends like she doesn’t know what I really am and swears she would never harm me. ‘I trust you completely,’ I tell her in turn, but I know, like you know now, that I’ve planted the seed in her mind. Her other options will suddenly seem hopeless and futile. The foretelling will grow in her mind until it seems like it is her destiny, that there is no escaping it. On the morrow, or the next, she will give in to her destiny, and render this body I’ve taken from you lifeless. But I’ll be ready, of course. Into her body or another’s I’ll jump, and then all will be chaos. I’ll escape in the confusion, and when the Old World finally regains order—as they most certainly will—I will be long gone, and Senator Emil, or someone like him, will find you down here wearing the mind cage and think you are me. Off you’ll go to Khail Sanctu to be locked away in a prison just as I was.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Makarria demanded, seething with anger, wanting nothing more than to use her power, but not daring to do so. “Did you come here just to gloat about how clever you are?”

  “I’m not above gloating, it’s true, but this is much more important than simple gloating.” The pthisicis-corporis leaned in close again and tapped two fingers on the framework of the mind cage. Blinding pain shot through Makarria’s head, and she reeled backward only to clank the cage into the wall behind her and send another shock of pain through her skull and down her spine.

  “Do I have your attention again?” the pthisicis-corporis asked after a moment. “This is important, so listen carefully. I am doing you a favor, dreamwielder. I am setting you free. How can you live your potential when you’re bound to the duties of a queen, beholden to the laws of some self-righteous sorcerers who crossed the Spine three hundred years ago? I’ve been living your life for only four days, and I’m already fed up with it. The responsibilities. The expectations. The propriety. You’ll finally be free of all of it. You’ll be sent off to a secret prison in Khail Sanctu as a pthisicis-corporis, where you’ll have plenty of time to ruminate on the purpose of your existence, maybe for a year or two, maybe for a decade. Who can say? But eventually you will be released. The Senate might have a task for you, or if not, they will bring you a new body when the one you wear now is old and close to dying. Either way they will remove your mind cage, thinking you a pthisicis-corporis. But you are much more than that, and in that moment you will be truly free for the first time in your life. It’s no secret, I hope you will show the Old World Republic what you think of their idea of liberty and freedom. The Old World has not seen a dreamwielder of your likes in thousands of years, and they are long overdue to be humbled. But you can do as you please. Perhaps you’ll seek me out, wiser and more prepared to face me the second time.”

  Words were beyond Makarria. Emperor Guderian had been belligerent in his beliefs and easily angered, but the pthisicis-corporis was unflappable. All Makarria could do was return the fake queen’s glare.

  “You stare back at me in defiance, still not believing what I say,” the fake queen said. “You think—what?—that one of your friends will save you still? Perhaps this will convince you.” The pthisicis-corporis turned away and grabbed the satchel lying on the floor. Makarria had completely forgotten about it. The pthisicis-corporis hefted it up with one hand, and Makarria could see something dark and wet dripping from the bottom of it. A sense of dread filled her, but what the pthisicis-corporis pulled out of the sack was the yellow speaking stone.

  “Another clever trick, this,” the pthisicis-corporis said. “A magical stone for speaking to your friends. I had not foreseen it. In fact, I would have been oblivious to it if Talitha of Issborg had not called out to you the other night. Alas, Fina was not there to witness my discovery. When Queen Taera’s airship arrived this morning she sent your fat scribe to deliver a red stone, and Fina tried to sneak into my room and steal this one. I was not fast enough to catch the fat man in time, but I did catch this one.”

  Makarria felt a surge of triumph at hearing the news of Natale’s success. I might be locked up, but now Caile and Taera and Talitha can help one another, at least.

  “Don’t look so pleased,” the pthisicis-corporis said, and with a grunt hurled the speaking stone against the wall, where it shattered into a thousand pieces of yellow gravel that skittered across the stone floor. “Your friends can talk now, but none of them know about you. The only ones who know about you are Fina and…” The pthisicis-corporis paused to reach back into the rucksack.

  “No!” Makarria shouted, realizing what it was too late.

  “…the fat man,” said the pthisicis-corporis, hefting up Natale’s severed head. Jagged chunks of the scholar’s vertebrae hung from the bottom of the sundered neck, and his wide, glassed-over eyes reflected the flickering torchlight dully.

  “I couldn’t very well have loose ends lying around, could I?” the pthisicis-corporis said. “And besides, it will give Fina one final nudge to fulfill her destiny and murder me when she finds Natale’s dismembered body in the library.”

  Makarria sobbed, slow, tearless heaves that wracked through her body. “No,” she moaned. “Why?”

  “In fact, I dismissed Fina from duty for the rest of the evening,” the pthisicis-corporis said, ignoring Makarria’s weeping. “She is very likely making her grisly discovery as we speak. It was much messier than I intended. I had to do the dirty business myself, and your waifish arms aren’t well suited to hefting a short sword. But it is done and done, and you are all alone, dreamwielder.”

  Makarria screamed, a wordless, feral cry of anger and anguish.

  The pthisicis-corporis grinned and reached up and wound the turnkey on Makarria’s mind cage, five quick turns, and on the fifth turn Makarria screamed herself into oblivion.

  19

  Corporis Amiserunt

  Caile sat by himself in the room he shared with Thon, holding the orange speaking stone in both hands. Thon was gone, off fetching food for the both of them from the mess hall, and now that Caile was alone with his thoughts, he felt more helpless than ever. He had tried everything he could think of since arriving in Col Sargoth and had gotten nowhere. The election council was moving inexorably forward to elect Lord Kobel, and Caile was completely out of the loop. No one on the election council would even meet with him anymore.

  He let out a long breath and spoke into his orange speaking stone, too lost and too worried to care about his pride anymore. “Makarria, can you hear me? Makarria? Makarria?”

  Nothing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the image of her yellow speaking stone in his mind, and
tried again.

  “Makarria? Are you there?”

  He kept at it for a good ten minutes to no end before finally flinging the stone onto his bed in frustration. Only six days until the election, and I’ve made no progress. I’m worthless here. I should have stayed in Sol Valaróz with Makarria. Something’s happened, or she would have contacted me by now.

  “Damn it all!” he yelled, punching the pillow on his bed and then flinging it across the room. He snatched up the speaking stone again and looked into its orange swirls, this time imagining the color silver. “Talitha! Talitha! It’s Caile. Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  Caile closed his eyes and concentrated harder. “Talitha!”

  He waited, and still nothing.

  This time he pictured Talitha’s face and squeezed his speaking stone so hard the color drained from his fingers. “Talitha! Talitha, please…Talitha?”

  • • •

  Fina twirled the stem of the wine glass between her fingers, then set it back down on the nightstand and picked up her letter to read it over one last time. The ink was dry and the words were as good as she would ever get them, so she folded the parchment and grabbed her candle to dribble out a dollop of wax to seal it closed. She had no official seal, so she used her thumb instead. When the wax was dry, she flipped the letter over, dabbed her quill into the inkpot, and addressed the front: Princess Prisca.

  With the letter done, she examined the short sword at her side and the dagger in her belt one last time to make sure they were loose in their scabbards. Satisfied that all was ready, she grabbed the wine glass and lifted it to her lips. We knew each other only briefly, Natale, but you were a good man and deserving of better, she toasted silently, sipping and savoring the sharp tang of the red wine on her tongue for a moment before tipping the glass back to drain the rest of it in one giant gulp.

  I must hurry now, and do my duty, she told herself. Already, the fake queen was downstairs, readying to enter the throne room for the official proclamation, the body thief called it, but surrendering to the Old World was more accurate. Makarria’s royal parents would be down there already too, along with the ambassadors and the newly arrived delegation from the Old World. Fina needed to move fast if she wanted to deliver the letter to Prisca’s room and make it to the throne room in time.

  • • •

  Caile tossed the speaking stone onto the bed again, disgusted. Makarria had sent him away thinking he had betrayed her, and now something had happened to her, he was certain. Otherwise she would have contacted him to discuss the election if nothing else. It had been five days since he’d arrived in Col Sargoth, seven days since he’d left Sol Valaróz, and nothing? And what of Talitha? Where could she be? Caile was utterly alone, and even Thon was gone now.

  For too long now, Caile realized. Where is Thon?

  He walked to the door, opened it, and peered out into the corridor. He saw three cavalrymen at the far end of the hallway, but no sign of Thon. With a dissatisfied grunt, he slammed the door closed again. It shouldn’t have taken Thon so long to go fetch a few trenchers of stew from the mess hall. Maybe someone struck up a conversation with him. But who? Thon had elicited less attention than Caile himself had here in Lightbringer’s Keep, and Caile was a prince.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Caile frowned and opened it.

  “Prince Caile Delios,” one of the cavalrymen said in a hushed tone. “Come with us. Quietly.”

  Caile looked down and saw the man held a dagger two inches from his stomach.

  • • •

  Even though they recognized her as the queen’s personal bodyguard, the guards at Prisca and Galen’s door refused to let Fina in. One of them, at least, agreed to step inside himself and set Fina’s letter on Prisca’s desk for her to find when she returned. “Won’t you see her in the throne room?” the other guard asked. “Why not just give it to her there?”

  “Because a throne room is no place for reading letters,” Fina said simply, and hurried away toward the stairs.

  • • •

  It was madness to try and push past three Sargothian cavalrymen, but that’s exactly what Caile did. He slapped the dagger out of the hand of the first solider, then lowered his shoulder into his chest to drive him back into the other two men. Before they could regain their balance, Caile spun aside into the corridor and dashed away.

  The cavalrymen cursed and their heavy footfalls echoed through the corridor as they chased after him. Caile reached down to grab his sword as he sprinted toward the end of the hallway and realized his sword wasn’t there. He’d taken his belt and scabbard off as soon as he’d returned to his room from the council meeting, he remembered. Fool! he cursed himself, but it was of no matter. He was a fast runner and he was nearly to the end of the corridor where it opened up into the grand hallway of the keep. The hexagonal hallway of Lightbringer’s Keep was always bustling with people and there were dozens of side corridors he could slip into to lose his assailants.

  Caile chanced a glance backward and grinned when he saw he was already outdistancing his followers. Finally, something is happening! he rejoiced, but when he turned forward again he saw three new cavalrymen rush to block the exit.

  • • •

  Fina stepped quietly into the sitting room adjoining the throne room and closed the door behind her. Inside, the fake queen was joined by Ambassador Mahalath, as well as Senator Emil and two legionnaires, both armed with shields and stout short swords. Senator Emil had arrived by sea not three hours earlier with an escort of twenty ships from the Old World. At the fake queen’s command, the Valarion generals welcomed a thousand Old World legionnaires into the city, into the royal palace itself, and now the fake queen was about to officially turn over power of the city, and the kingdom, to Senator Emil. The satisfied look he wore on his face made Fina want to take his head off, but she remained focused on the task before her.

  The fake queen glanced up from her chair to see Fina standing there and winked. The body thief taunts me. It knows what I’m about to do. It wants me to. Perhaps it already knows my inner thoughts, but it’s too late to turn back now. Fina ignored the fake queen and went to stand at the ready by the double doors leading to the throne room. Her stomach cramped, and she could feel sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. You only have one shot at this, Alafina Infierno, she told herself, blinking away the blurriness in her eyes. May your dagger be true and your grip strong.

  “Is all ready out there?” the fake queen demanded.

  Fina wiped the sweat from her brow and pushed one of the doors open a crack to peer inside the throne room. As before, it was packed with tittering aristocrats, guildmasters, generals, and more. The herald stood at the ready to announce the queen, and a dozen Royal Guards stood at the foot of the dais, six to each side so as not to block the view of the throne.

  “All is ready, Your Majesty,” Fina said, turning back to the fake queen. “You’re certain this is what you want to do?”

  Senator Emil shot her a black look. “The treaty is already signed, and this hearing is nothing but a formality. Who are you to question a queen?”

  “Never mind her, Senator,” the fake queen said, rising to her feet. “She means well. A loyalist to the end, she is. Go on then, Fina. Open the doors and let’s face the Kingdom of Valaróz.”

  • • •

  Caile’s second attempt at plowing through his assailants proved less successful than the first. He managed to knock the first cavalryman down, but the man was ready for him. He grabbed Caile around the waist as he fell and they both tumbled to the hard basalt floor. Caile elbowed him in the stomach and managed to slip free of his grip for a moment, but before he could regain his feet beneath him, one of the other cavalrymen punched him square in the nose. His head flailed back and stars filled his vision, and it was all he could to do maintain consciousness. Not that it helped him. One of the soldiers wrenched both of his arms behind his back to clap them in irons, and another s
hoved a black hood over his head.

  Caile yelled for help once, but that only earned another punch, this one to the soft spot beneath his ribs that knocked the air out of him. When he finally regained his breath and his senses, he was being dragged away and knew better than to struggle.

  • • •

  The fake queen was announced first, and Fina stepped out onto the dais behind her to take her place to the left of the throne while the men of the Old World waited in the sitting room. Fina’s hands were trembling now. The blurriness in her eyes was worse, and she could feel sweat from her armpits soaking the short sleeved gambeson beneath her chainmail, could feel sweat trickling down between her breasts.

  “My people,” the fake queen spoke, sitting up straight in the throne. “You have heard the rumors of the Old World Republic and, today, have seen the ships in the harbor. You have also heard the rumors of my missteps, the accusations from the Brotherhood of Five. I will deny them no longer. I am young. A woman, and prone to foolishness.”