The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Winslow deflated, all enthusiasm drained. This was a far cry from what he expected. In one meeting, this man had shattered all his dreams of a Blade’s life.

  “So, I say again, sweets,” Lestin bent to retrieve the vellum, “you can sign and go back to your nice life.”

  As much as he wished to do as the drillmaster suggested, something in Winslow refused. Perhaps it was too many of those sleepless nights spent imagining what it would be like to earn his apprenticeship. Perhaps it was the chase in the Smear or the events in the Parmien Forest. He met Lestin’s leer and hard eyes once more. In that moment, Winslow decided he would prove his worth and his perseverance to this Marishman.

  “Very well.” Lestin crumpled the parchment. “Welcome to hell. May Desitrin watch over you.”

  A Girl and a Sword

  K eedar had no love for the name of the inn, but something about its atmosphere called to him. The Hangman stood next to another tavern called the Glittering Lady in the middle of the River Quarter’s maze of cobbled streets and lanes. Of all the establishments in the area, it appeared to be one of the less favored, which was perfect. Despite his concern for his father and what might be happening in the Smear, Keedar felt a sense of relief at being away. It might have been the chance to breathe the cleaner if briny air this close to the River Ost’s sluggish waters or simply being able to walk down a street where he did not have to step in garbage or worse. Not that the Quarter was spotless by any means, but comparing the two was like putting a Red Beggar next to a nobleman.

  He sat near a window looking out onto the roads that were always wet, as if they perennially carried the river’s moisture. Seafarers and rivermen strode along, the difference between the two often a case of swarthier skin and lighter clothes for those who kept to the oceans. Quite a few of them were Darshanese, hook-nosed and dark-haired, having braved the Raging Sea along their coasts to lead those less adept at navigating its tumultuous currents. A few Farish Islanders, bodies covered in tattoos, stood out among the crowds. With the king’s recent pardon, the men of their race had appeared in droves. One in particular, so much bigger and more tanned than others of his people that it was obvious he was a half-breed, walked with a dancer’s grace as he headed toward the Hangman’s entrance.

  Martel, Father’s Sword, was a man of angular lines from his face down to his legs. It was as if he was sculpted from stone. His green eyes were a reflection of his mixed heritage. It was said when the Sword came to see a man, all that remained would be guts. Although he sported tattoos like the Farish Islander he claimed to be, his complexion was closer to a Thelusian. The one time Keedar had managed to get him to speak of his past, Martel said his mother was raped by one of the big-boned men. Keedar didn’t doubt it. Not with the hate that shone in Martel’s eyes whenever he saw his darker half.

  “Rose,” Keedar called to the serving girl behind him, “bring me another cup of coffee, but spike it with a little mesqa. In fact, make it more mesqa than coffee.” He found the liquor a bit bitter for his tastes, but it was a Farish Island favorite.

  “Yes, m’lord,” Rose replied, her voice not carrying a hint of her Marish background.

  “And please, stop calling me that. I’m just a commoner. My name’s Keedar.”

  “Yes, m’—Keedar.”

  Well, that’s a start. It had been hard enough to get the woman to say two words to him without bowing. Then the Hangman’s owner had asked him if he was interested in Rose’s other services. He had tried not to show his embarrassment, but he was certain it must have written itself on his face with the way Master Hernol burst into laughter, holding his big belly. Keedar wondered if he poked the man with a pin if his stomach would pop. Not that he hadn’t been admiring Rose’s curves and swaying walk, but the innkeeper was too watchful by far. Pot gut bastard.

  The door opened and let in a breeze of cool air and a whiff of the river. It offset the warmth from the hearth against the far wall.

  Martel eyed him, gave a nod, and then strode over. “I keep telling your father you should live here in the Quarter.” He pulled out a chair and sat to Keedar’s right. “You’re far too valuable to lose.”

  “Hello to you too, Martel.”

  The Sword inclined his head.

  “As for value, I think you and my father matter more than I ever could. Perhaps when I’m up there in years I can claim the same.”

  “Appears as if you’re calling me old.”

  “Well, I still have hair.”

  “You brat.” Martel grinned. “I’m bald by choice. Besides, the ladies like my head this way.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. I’m telling you, the way they stroke my head when I have it nice and oiled. It’s like they want to make love to the thing.”

  Keedar rolled his eyes.

  Rose reappeared with the cup of coffee, the odor from the mesqa rising with the steam. She bowed several times to them, averted her eyes from Martel’s roving gaze, and gave Keedar a slight smile.

  “Nice girl you have there,” Martel said as she walked away to serve another patron. “Looks as if she’d be a nice tumble.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Keedar replied, but he made it his business not to glance in Rose’s direction. Even so, he could clearly picture her brown curls, skin like smooth honey, eyes that seemed so innocent, a smile that made him blush, and curves that had him dream of how she would feel in his arms.

  “So that’s how it is, is it?” Martel chuckled.

  “What?”

  “Boy, you should know by now that you can’t hide anything from me. Here’s a free tip. She likes you. And not for you to spend coin on her either.”

  Keedar said nothing.

  “The way you’re red in the face might make a man think you never had a taste before, but I know differently. Just don’t get attached to her.” Martel took a sip from the cup. “Hmm. Good stuff.”

  Rather than have Martel coach him on how to approach Rose or start recounting his own exploits, Keedar decided to change the subject. “So what’s the word from the Smear?”

  “Well, Sorinya’s going about his business, killed a few Snakes, but he’s still on the warpath.”

  “What’s my father doing about him?”

  “Seeing to it that the Ebon Blade doesn’t kill too many.”

  Keedar shook his head. “Why not simply stop him. You’re Father’s Sword. Isn’t that part of your job?” He hadn’t meant to bring up what might be happening, but somewhere in the back of his mind he worried not only for his father but for the well-being of any caught in Sorinya’s path.

  Martel stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth. He rested it back down on the table. “There’s no such thing as simple when dealing with one of their kind. Blade or no Blade, don’t you think I’d like to get my hands on him? That’s the very reason Delisar sent me here. He knows I have a special place in my heart for Sorinya and his people. And there’s no way I’d let up until one of us is dead. So he sent me here to watch after you, and to make certain the count doesn’t send someone here. As for stopping Sorinya, if someone did, that might spark the nobles to dispatch an entire squad.”

  “It’s that serious?”

  “Delisar believes so. It’s the nobles and their damned politics. Reports from our people inside say there’s bound to be an uprising soon. What is it that the Hills call it?”

  “Succession Day.”

  “Yes, that,” Martel said. “I’ve been in the middle of one of them before, way back when Jemare took the crown. Trust me, it’s not pretty. Makes the Night of Blades seem like an outing with your lady by the riverside. Nobles killing each other and anything else not pledged to them. We can only hope we aren’t here to see it when it comes.” Martel threw back his head and downed the rest of the mesqa.

  Lecturers, books, or second hand accounts had passed on any details Keedar garnered concerning Succession Day. Most folk didn’t like to speak on it. When they did, they mentioned nobles forming armies an
d something about Far’an Senjin—old Dracodarian for the Game of Souls. His father said part of the game was played out with every Day of Accolades. In ancient times it was a contest held within the now abandoned arenas where melders battled each other with a princess’ hand as the prize.

  “So the plan is for me to just sit here,” Keedar said. He could be of better use scouting the Smear.

  “I’d enjoy it if I were you. I might boast, but I wouldn’t relish going up against Sorinya. A man would have to be insane to do so.”

  “And my father?”

  “Believe it or not, if I had to choose one or the other in a straight fight, I’m putting my coin on Delisar. All of it.” Martel turned to Rose, holding up his cup. “Ay, young miss, more of this.”

  The idea of Delisar being that strong in soul brought a smile to Keedar’s face. Martel did not give praise lightly. It also eased some of the apprehension he’d been experiencing.

  Martel put his palms on the table and pushed to his feet.

  “Didn’t you just order another drink?”

  “That one was for you.” Martel winked. “I have a job to do. I can’t afford to get drunk. You, on the other hand, need to loosen your tongue and worry less. I’m sure your serving girl will be happier for it. You’ve been through a lot for one so young. Being adept at soul magic is as much about fighting as it is to know when your body needs rest. I’ll be outside keeping an eye on you.” The Sword strode from the tavern.

  “He no longer wants his drink?” Rose said from next to Keedar.

  “It’s for me.”

  Rose bowed, placed the glass on the table, and made to turn away. Keedar reached out and touched her arm. She stopped and looked down into his face, a shy smile on her lips.

  “Could I speak with you a moment?” He held her gaze.

  “Of course. Whatever m’lord needs.” She cast a nervous glance toward the inn’s front desk.

  He sighed, stood, and headed over to where Master Hernol stood behind the counter, picking at his fingernails, trying to appear disinterested.

  “Yes?” The innkeeper glanced up, one corner of his mouth curved up.

  “I need some time with Rose. Take it from the coin I gave you when I first came.”

  “See, I knew you would come around. Everyone does.”

  Keedar restrained himself from slapping the man in his leering, obnoxious face. “You will say nothing of this to her. If I hear one word, the Sword will pay you a visit.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes grew round and his hands shook. “Y-yes, my lips are sealed, young master.”

  Without another word, Keedar returned to where Rose waited. “Come, I’m famished. Show me what’s good here in the River Quarter.”

  P riests and Plots

  S urrounded by the scents of a dozen incenses, Ainslen eased into a seat in High Priest Jarod’s chambers. He winced as he leaned over to rest his crutch against a nearby chair. The wiseman had paintings dedicated to each of the Dominion’s Gods hanging on his walls, the largest of which displayed Mandrigal, his head wreathed in gold like the sun he represented, as he rescued those who’d been faithful to him, snatching their souls from the Great Beyond and bringing them back to life. Such nonsense. Ainslen smirked. To think that a people as civilized as his still held to these inane beliefs.

  “Ah, Count Cardiff,” Jarod said in his too smooth voice as he entered, “pleasant surprise. I did not expect to see you so soon.”

  “My wounds have been healing nicely, thanks to you.”

  Jarod’s eyes roved over the crutch. “But you’re still not able to walk without aid. You should have stayed home and sent for me.”

  “That’s the exact reason I came. To carry out my plans I must heal faster. I had blood taken from the boy today.” Ainslen held up the ceramic container. “With what Lestin put him through in his first day or two, this was the best time for it.”

  Jarod hissed. “You should have waited. It is always better if the transfusion is done from one body to the next. The blood is at its most potent then.”

  “The boy’s growing stronger. I’ve seen it for myself now. He might have picked up on what was happening. I cannot risk that.”

  “Fair enough.” Jarod poked his head out the door, said a few words, and came back inside. Back bent slightly, he shuffled over to a comfortable armchair near a book rack. “Selentus will be here shortly.”

  “Good.”

  “How are your other endeavors?”

  Jarod might have been well over ninety years old, but Ainslen could never tell. Except for his snowy hair, and his bent back, which Ainslen knew to be a ploy, all else about the wiseman spoke of a younger person. His deft fingers in whatever he did, his lack of wrinkles, and his eyes most of all. They were a blue so piercing they might have well been carved from a piece of cobalt.

  “Things are going so well it makes me nervous,” Ainslen replied. Lying to the wiseman was pointless. Jarod had no grasp of melding as far as he knew, but the man had a fount of information than ran deeper than the River Ost. “A message arrived by raven to confirm my suspicions of what the Kheridisians are hiding.”

  Jarod’s mouth formed an ‘O’. His eyes lit up. “The Father will be pleased to hear this. When can he expect his tribute?”

  “First, I must commission a squad of Blades, and then I need to take the crown before you and yours can have your rewards.”

  “Jemare is no fool. By now he knows that the houses are all plotting. How do you plan to secure the Blades if he decides to put a stop to the contracts?”

  Ainslen produced the king’s honor badge. “I have already sent out the order.”

  “A shrewd move. You’ve grown bolder the closer you have come to success.” Jarod intertwined his fingers, making them crack like a man stepping on ice across a half-frozen lake. “Be careful not to become too clever for your own good. Remember, nothing happens without the approval of our Order.”

  The Order of the Dominion . Ainslen suppressed the need to grimace. They had too much power by far, holding sway over most of the population through prayer and the temples. The priests were as much a part of Far’an Senjin as the nobles who actively played it. One day he would have to see that changed.

  “A man might almost think you didn’t trust him.” Ainslen made a steeple of his hands. “After all he’s sacrificed and given in the name of the Order. Because of me, you have a foothold where you have dreamed for years. A little trust will go a long way.”

  Jarod smiled. “You have our ear and our help. That’s quite enough. We do thank you for all you have provided us. Soon, you will wear our gratitude on your head.”

  “And for that I’m in your debt.” Which is why I need to discover who is this secretive Father of yours. Chop off a monster’s head and the body would rot.

  “When do you expect delivery?”

  “Two months at the most.”

  “Time enough for everything to be in place.”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Enter,” Jarod called.

  Similar to Jarod, Selentus was another wiseman who appeared almost ageless. Unlike his brethren he still had black hair, combed and oiled to match the precise trim of his beard.

  “You sent for me, High One?” Selentus bowed to Jarod.

  “Take the blood from Count Cardiff and get the room cleaned and ready. He’s in need of a transfusion.”

  Selentus gave a mere nod to Ainslen. In their temple, the priests recognized no authority but their own.

  “This time I prefer to remain awake during the procedure,” Ainslen said.

  “If that is your wish.” Selentus took the container. “A topical numbing agent will work for what we intend.” He faced Jarod, bowed once, and left.

  “Are you certain you can stand the pain?” Jarod’s brow furrowed as he spoke.

  “I’ve already suffered the worst pain I ever could,” Ainslen said, recalling Marjorie’s death. The memory often came upon him here in the temples. He found hims
elf questioning the reason the Gods had for taking the lives of his loved ones.

  “There’s a difference between physical and mental anguish.”

  Ainslen shrugged. “Perhaps. I have been in all types of battles, suffered many different wounds, and nothing has hurt like it did that night. If I could persevere through that, then I can withstand this.” He didn’t wish to tell Jarod that he needed the hurt to feel alive. Much that once moved him no longer did. Often times he wondered if he had any emotions left.

  “The choice is yours, but be careful. Your feelings are as much a part of your soul as anything else. Together they determine who you are and what you become.”

  “No need to lecture me. You trained me well, but I am beyond all of that now.”

  Lips pursed, Jarod shook his head. “You worry me sometimes.”

  I should worry you all the time. “What do you think of the dreg now that he survived the derins?” Previously, High Priest Jarod had been unimpressed.

  “He has turned out to be an interesting case. You’ve convinced me he’s special. I’m still baffled as to how we missed him, but soon enough we shall discover his background.”

  “You and I both know how the examiners did not pick up on him. Your Order’s stubbornness by refusing to acknowledge that the Smear’s inhabitants have been hiding the more gifted children. If neither their abandonment of the Dominion nor their lack of producing dominant Blades have convinced you, I wonder what will.”

  The High Priest’s piercing eyes glittered as his face darkened. “It would do well for you to be careful to whom and where you voice such sentiments. It’s almost as if you suggest that we are involved in whatever deception you think may be afoot.”

  “Sorry if I offended you.” Ainslen had nothing but suspicions. He chided himself for saying a bit too much. “My anger over what happened with my wife sometimes gets the better of me.”

  Jarod dipped his head in acceptance of the apology. “As I said, I will inquire into the boy’s origins.”