The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Clad in leather armor, the few Blades who were visible stood guard along one colonnade or another or at the entrances to various courtyards. Soldiers in red and blue uniforms patrolled the grounds. The sounds of training echoed from the other areas that were hidden by walls and columns. Morning, noon, or night mattered not when it came to the art of fighting.

  Ainslen knew better than to think his arrival had gone unannounced. As if reading his thoughts, one of King Jemare’s personal attendants, dressed in all gold, hurried down the stairs that led into the spires’ pristine corridors.

  “The king bids you a warm welcome, Count Cardiff,” the servant said, bobbing his head. “He awaits you in the Mandrigal Wing. If you will follow me?”

  “Lead on.”

  As they passed through the halls with their paneled wood ceilings, walls sprinkled with precious metals, murals, paintings, and various hangings, Ainslen contemplated his visit. He and Jemare had been friends back when they were both armsmen at the start of King Tolquan’s rule. Their competition began then, lasting until they both became Blades, and then Jemare earned the title of count. But as Jemare’s star had continued to rise with his melding skills and the victories he secured for the empire, Ainslen had remained a Blade. When Jemare ascended to the throne, and Ainslen saved him from the spirit-like Heleganese assassins, they had enjoyed another spurt of close friendship for a brief time. That last had come at the cost of Ainslen taking Mandrigal Hill from his father who had sent the assassins.

  The price only grew. Ever since Marjorie’s death and the discoveries he made afterward, Ainslen had chosen to keep himself apart from the king and most of his affairs. He still attended the balls and paid better tribute than most to ensure he remained in Jemare’s good graces.

  In all that, he had no need to ask for much from Jemare. He touched the king’s honor badge where it hung from a string around his neck, hidden by his clothes. Not even to use the special authority granted to him by saving Jemare’s life. But now Winslow had forced his hand. Of course Jemare would not deny his request, but having to approach him annoyed Ainslen.

  Two Blades stood at attention inside the door, their eyes ever vigilant. They said nothing as he entered the Mandrigal Wing with its multitude of windows spanning up the spire, the twinkle of celestial bodies a black and silver tapestry above. Mirrors reflected and increased the moon’s luminance in silver swaths. The sweet perfume of flowers blooming in the many gardens filled the air. Water bubbled from several fountains.

  At the room’s center, in a halo of moonbeams as if he were sent from Antelen herself, was King Jemare. He was a large man, all boulder-sized shoulders and carved stone for a chest. His immaculate silver coat with gold scrollwork down the side made him appear almost like a diamond held up to the light. With his head bent in prayer, neat silver braids falling down his back, one could be mistaken into thinking the king was not already aware of Ainslen’s presence. Until Jemare lifted his head, regarding Ainslen with piercing grey eyes before beckoning him forward.

  Ainslen took a deep breath and set off down the flagstoned walkway. Not once did he avert his gaze. Jemare was wary of anyone who could not look him in the eye.

  “It’s good to see you again, Ainslen.” Jemare gave him a welcoming smile.

  Ainslen bowed from the waist. “Same, sire.”

  “None of that here.” Jemare stepped forward and clasped his forearm. “Walk with me.” The king released him and began to stride down the path between the gardens. “I find it refreshing how this wing was created for the sun but serves almost as good a purpose for the moon. It reminds me that one can find unexpected uses out of situations. We have been through much together, but these last few years you have kept yourself apart. It worries me sometimes.”

  As it should, Ainslen thought as he strode next to Jemare. “You’ve been busy running the empire, and well I have had other duties to attend.”

  “There was a time politics would not stop you from visiting.”

  Ainslen wanted to tell him it was so much more than that, but he refrained from dredging up Marjorie’s memory. “Change happens for all of us.”

  “I suppose it does,” Jemare said. “Loss can do things to man, none of them pleasant.”

  Ainslen nodded his agreement. After Joaquin’s death Jemare had grown into a different person. Once patient, understanding, and compassionate, he had become harder, more ruthless, and less forgiving.

  “Tell me,” the king stared him directly in the face, “what happened to us, to our friendship?”

  Ainslen met Jemare’s gaze without flinching. “You became king. It changed everything. You know as well as I that it’s simply the way Kasinia is, the way it has always been.”

  “I miss the old days,” the king said wearily.

  “As do I.” Ainslen recalled the times spent womanizing together, sparring with each other, planning strategy and fighting battles alongside each other. Their relationship changed in the years leading up to Succession Day during King Tolquan’s reign. Already dangerous, Jemare grew insatiable in his need for power until he took the crown. When he married Terestere, Ainslen thought her beauty and demeanor would bring back his old friend. How wrong he’d been.

  “I wish I knew what could divert the path we’re set upon,” Jemare said.

  “As long as the guilds have their freedom and we follow Far’an Senjin, our history will continue to repeat itself.”

  “You have always blamed our troubles on the Game of Souls. Perhaps, you are right. However, it as much a part of us as the Consortium and the Day of Accolades. We might dislike certain things, but not only are they a necessity, they shape us.”

  “That shape at times becomes something ugly.”

  The king stopped before a rose bush its thorny vines crawling up a trellis. He drew in a deep breath as if savoring the red blooms’ tantalizing aroma. “And sometimes within that ugliness springs a thing of beauty. Like Terestere, like Joaquin.”

  Ainslen could not help the heat that crawled up inside him. “At what cost?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  “I-I’m sorry for what happened—” Jemare began.

  “Don’t … what’s done is done. You had your chance. You’re the king, you could have stopped it, changed the Trial, transformed the game, decided how we lived.” The memory burned.

  “Listen to yourself.” Jemare was once again peering into his face, eyes pleading. “You are saying that I could have stopped how we’ve lived for a thousand years. It’s like wishing a mountain would sprout legs and move away because you wish to pass or for the Kheridisians to love us. If I tried what you asked, it would mean slaughtering all the houses as they stand now, yours included. Is that what you wish? Even if I tried, the entire land would rise against me. I learned that early in my reign. We might rule, but our people are a strong one. They often have the final say. We made them so.”

  Ainslen remembered how he and Jemare would discuss the changes they’d make if either of them ever won the crown. None of that came to pass. As overpowering as the king was, as indomitable as his will had been, he’d fallen into the same old patterns, bought into the same old traditions. And it had taken Ainslen’s family. The count ground his jaw.

  As if seeing the pain and anger in his face, the king did not force the issue. “So what is it that brings you to me today?”

  “My son. You must have heard by now.”

  “Ah, yes, the Trial of Bravery. You must be proud.”

  “If I had my way, he wouldn’t have taken the test.”

  “But he did, and he passed. You’re here now to ask for him to begin apprenticeship with the Blades.” Jemare pursed his lips. “I could have him advanced through the ranks to begin actual soul training.”

  “No,” Ainslen said, “he must start as any other. In the Grey Fist.”

  Jemare’s brow creased with lines. “Are your certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I shall have him assigned to the Fist before I lea
ve to meet with the Thelusian and Marish monarchs to address the rumors of a Farlander fleet.”

  “Thank you.” Ainslen knew the king must have thought it strange to refuse the offer, but the memory of Marjorie told him that keeping Winslow where he could always have an eye on him was for the best. Only the Dominion knew what Jemare’s intentions might be if he became aware of Winslow’s growth.

  “I can almost understand why you wouldn’t want your son to become a Blade, but look at you and I, Ainslen. Forget the wars, we survived all those years spent melding.”

  “Perhaps. But who is to say the Dominion will shine on him as they did us? We, and the few like us, were the exception, not the rule.”

  “True,” Jemare said, “but choices of fate have ever been in Hazline’s hands. My one regret is the children we lose. There are too many born without a strong enough gift. So many reduced to invalids and cremated. And then there are the others, the ones induced too fast who burn out their souls. It’s becoming harder to maintain the armies.”

  Ainslen knew only too well. “Have you considered declaring war on Kheridisia or one of the western lands?”

  “Yes, but first I must assess this new threat.”

  “Then I say scour the Smear.”

  “Bah, you and your obsession with the place. They already submit what they have to us. No. I will order a bigger tribute from around the empire. That should suffice for now.” The king’s thick eyebrows drew together. “Well, if you will excuse me, Ainslen, I fear my attendants wish to prepare me for my trip. You know foreign rulers … having to answer to me makes them no less impatient. I shall leave the order for your son as I pass the Grey Fist. When I return, don’t be such a stranger, old friend. Bring your boy for me to see. He’s sixteen, correct? He must be quite the young man by now.”

  “As you wish, sire.” Ainslen gave Jemare a sweeping bow and left. Winslow would never meet the king if he could help it.

  I nvitation to Hunt

  T wo days later, a bit past noon, Keedar easily picked out Gaston on Cobbler’s Lane, the street adjacent to Deadman’s Gap. A member of the Red Beggar guild, scarlet scarf around his neck matching that on his arm, bowed profusely to the young noble. Unlike the first meeting, Gaston rode a majestic chestnut stallion, certainly a warhorse of some type considering its temperament. Two guards in burnished mail cleared a path through the throng of patrons on their way to partake in the deals and black market items the plaza provided. People shifted around Gaston and his men like ripples in a pond.

  The young noble stood out. Not that they weren’t other well-to-do folk: merchants, bare-chested ship’s captains, a coach flying the colors of some lesser house, decently ranked soldiers and the like, but they paled in comparison to Gaston’s lace and silk, his white derin cloak hanging from his shoulders. Clothing made quite a difference even on one as bony as him.

  After adjusting his leather greaves and gloves, Keedar slipped across several roofs and shimmied down a wall at the Smear’s edge. The two guards gave each other a look and a smirk as Keedar approached. Trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible, he kept his steps even, unhurried. He stopped when the closest guard leveled a spear squarely at his chest. A hole through his gut wouldn’t do well for his digestion or his heart for that matter.

  “Lord Rostlin, might this dreg be the one you’re after?” The guard behind the spear offered a lopsided grin that sent his pockmarked face from ugly to the better part of hideous.

  Gaston wheeled his mount with a grace that said he’d been riding from birth. Perhaps he’d been spat out of his mother’s womb on the damned thing. With his face clean, the young nobleman made quite the picture. What he lacked in size, he made up for in looks. His skin was a bit paler shade than Keedar’s own. Curly hair lay across his brow. When he swept it from his eyes, he made a simple motion seem sublime. He cracked a smile, revealing teeth that practically glowed white.

  Warning bells, like those used when there was a fire in the Smear, tolled in Keedar’s head. He almost turned away. How he managed to stay and return Gaston’s grin would have made his father beam with pride.

  “Keedar,” Gaston exclaimed over the surrounding chatter, “so glad I found you.” He waved to the guard who lowered his weapon.

  No, I found you. Keedar dipped his head. “How may I help … my lord?”

  “How would you like to accompany us into the Parmien? Winslow and a few close friends are waiting.”

  “Me?” Keedar arched an eyebrow.

  “I know no one else around here.” Gaston still had that infectious smile. “You have your doubts about us, but we both owe you. A good time is the least we can offer. Besides, I remember you mentioned something about a derin. We’re going to hunt one of the beasts. It will be fun.”

  “Fun? Derin hunting is dangerous sport. It takes a certain kind of skill to even get close to one of them. That is if you don’t end up as fodder yourself.”

  “There will be enough of us to reduce any risk.”

  “In that case,” Keedar said, “you’re forgetting one thing.”

  “Oh?”

  Keedar glanced from Gaston’s horse and then back to the boy’s face.

  “Ah. Meet us at the Keneshin—I mean the West Gate, we’ll have a mount for you there.”

  Keedar smiled at the correction. For a moment he considered telling Gaston he couldn’t ride. Before he could utter a word, Gaston slapped his reins and rode away. After giving Keedar the once over, the guards followed.

  With a sigh, Keedar watched until he lost them in the crowds. One didn’t deny a noble, and Gaston wasn’t asking for his presence. He expected it.

  As he worked his way back into the Smear, Keedar relieved a peddler of a carrot, and took to the roofs once more. He traversed toward Kasandar’s western outskirts with its ramparts the color of dried blood. Using the bronze and blackened steel spires of Corten’s Shrine for guidance, he leaped over the spaces between the haphazard building layouts until he attained his goal.

  When his approach gained several archers’ attention, he shimmied down a drain a few hundred feet from the wall. The last thing he needed was to put them on edge or risk ending up a pincushion. Jogging the rest of the way he soon reached the district near the Keneshin Gate.

  In total, Kasandar had ten gates along the hundred-foot tall bulwark surrounding the citadel. Each represented a God or Goddess and their corresponding Heaven within the pantheon of the Dominion. Some folk joked that the Keneshin, Mandrigal, and Humel Gates, all located close to the Smear, should each be renamed to match the Ten Purgatories ruled by the God of the Afterlife, Desitrin.

  The lecturers Father employed insisted Keedar learn as much of Kasinia’s religions as its past. He often wondered how such knowledge benefited him considering his lack of status. Father would always reply that knowledge separated the living from the dead.

  This section of the citadel reflected the civilizations that came to prominence dating back to the Fabled Era. The differences, stark and subtle, were another reason he enjoyed the rooftops. From them, the citadel’s growth was laid bare, wood becoming stone, stone becoming metal, ruin becoming rebirth. Ancient architecture gave Kasandar its character—from giant bronzeworks, to stone arches, to towering statues of Gods and Hell’s Angels, the latter often defaced by those who considered them blasphemous. A monolithic clock tower, the timepiece in the form of exposed gears, stood out in the distance near several golden towers whose structures stretched up into the sky like gigantic needles. Legend had it that Hazline, the God of the Fates and the Thirty-two Winds, and Antelen, the Goddess of Time and Tide, created the clock. If he were to believe the zealots.

  The Golden Spires, King Jemare’s home, fascinated him. The slant-eyed Marishmen, who inhabited the Blooded Dagger Mountains to the east and believed the higher they built the closer they were to the Gods, raved about the towers. In contrast were the stark, black, Thelusian structures, square and squat, a direct opposite to the race’s size that sprea
d for miles from the spires. Supposedly, the midnight-skinned people used their souls during construction. Some said their homes were alive. Once, Keedar had tried to find proof, venturing close to their houses, but the sense of foreboding they gave off made him turn back. Caught in the moment, he let his gaze rove. Kasandar offered a thousand stories spanning through eras that left it with silver buildings, red basalt walls, and glass covered edifices in the richest districts down to the ramshackle blot of the Smear. If only he could sit and listen to them all.

  “You there, dreg.”

  The word and rough yet commanding voice cut through his thoughts. He almost shot back a scathing response before he realized he had crossed the Smear’s borders.

  Soldiers lined the roads leading from the district, keeping an eye out for any who might be criminals. From time to time they referred to drawings they carried. More than one stopped to peer into a Red Beggar’s face where the guild member sat, pleading for alms. Keedar had stolen such a painting once. Pictured on the canvas was a dark-haired man with multiple knife scars across his cheeks and a woman with tinges of silver in her hair, her eyes amber jewels, reminding him of his own. She and the man could have fit right in the Smear. He wondered who was depicted on the wanted posters now.

  Keedar recognized one of the guards. He often saw the man on his weekly trip into the forest with Father. The guard didn’t bother to look at his drawing. Instead, he gave Keedar a nod and waved him by.

  The streets here in the Grey Ward weren’t as crowded as those along Rockbottom Plaza. This section held nothing of real value unless one wanted to strip old wood and rotted bricks from a building. Or hire the occasional whore. However, the purveyors of flesh who frequented this area weren’t the prettiest. Keedar couldn’t help his lips twitching with the thought. These whores were veritable hags: gap-toothed, more fat than curves, disheveled, wrinkly, scarred, and stink. They could make a man savor the wharfs.