The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  The rough pitch of the voice made Keedar’s eyes widen and his heart race. He couldn’t see the person as the nobles swiveled to take in whoever it was, but he didn’t need to.

  “You’re all bidding without seeing the product?” There was a hint of amusement in Father’s voice. “Someone says they have a fabled Dracodar’s bones and scales, and we simply throw coin at them? You’re all too trusting. Not I. Kasandar is a hotbed of Consortium activity. The black market thrives with too many fakes to count. Show us proof.”

  “Who might you be to make demands?” said the man in white.

  “I thought this was a secret gathering,” Father said, “a place where we could rely on our anonymity from the other houses and a reprieve from any of the king’s taxes. At least that is what I paid for. If it is not, let me know, and I will take my gold monarchs with me and see myself to the door.”

  Nervous mutterings ran through the room.

  “Very well.” The man in whites gestured, palm upward, to Felius.

  At the table, Felius nodded to two King’s Blades. Armor clinking, boots thudding on the carpeted floor, they strode forward.

  “Open it,” Felius announced and stepped back.

  The Blades stood to either side of the container. Moments passed where they did nothing but stare at the grey surface. Keedar strained his eyes but made out no changes in the air around them to signify their use of soul. Metallic clicks ensued, ringing through the silent gathering. Without the guards’ touching it, the lid swung up.

  “Show them.” Felius spread his hands out toward the expectant crowd.

  Glinting from the lamps in the sconces around the room, a hint of silver rose from the container. It unfolded. Gasps followed.

  Polished to a sparkling shine and in the shape of close-fitting armor, Keedar recognized what he was looking at. Scales. Thousands upon thousands of them intricately joined together.

  Worse yet was the soul rolling from the armor. The power called to him; it writhed, flowed, burst outward. He felt its heat against his skin. Too much. Too strong. Someone beside him gasped.

  “By the Dominion,” Winslow whispered in reverence.

  Despite being high above in the ceiling, Keedar wanted to shy away. He shouldn’t have been able to see the energy much less feel it. Not yet. Not according to father’s teachings. Not around something dead. But the soul was there all the same.

  Memories rose anew, as if he stood in the hall that night when the King’s Blades killed Mother. Flames. Golden scales. Mother’s laughter as she fought. He was huddled in a corner before strong arms grabbed him and snuck him out through the bolthole.

  The recollection cut off.

  Below, the lamps guttered and blinked out.

  F riend or Foe

  W inslow couldn’t see as far as his outstretched hands. Keedar and Gaston’s loud breaths sounded beside him. His heartbeat was thunder. The crawlspace’s constriction pulled at him, screamed for him to flee. The musty odor and dust of the unused corridors made it hard to breathe. His hands scrabbled for purchase on the rough stone.

  Cries and shouts echoed below them. Then came the ring of steel on steel. Hollow booms followed. Although a novice in soul, he still felt the strength of the magic. His gut clenched.

  “We have to get out now,” Keedar said, breathless, his voice so near Winslow flinched.

  “Who would dare attack us?” Fear and disbelief tinged Gaston’s tone. “Could it be the Farlanders?”

  “I doubt it,” Keedar said, “but it doesn’t matter, does it? There’s a fight going on. A battle between melders. We have to go now.”

  No one protested as on all fours they wormed their way through the crawlspace. By memory, Winslow followed the twists and turns. Each corner made it seem as if the trip would last an eternity. The sounds of fighting drifted farther away. When he finally saw the crack of light from the storeroom ahead, he let out a sigh.

  He was the first one through, dropping down among grain sacks. Gaston followed soon after. When Keedar landed, he came up with two daggers in hand, his eyes searching all around them before his face relaxed.

  “Follow me,” Winslow implored. He made to head deeper into the mansion where he could take the passageways built into the walls and lead them to the servants’ quarters.

  A hand on his shoulder stopped him. The fingers were like steel. Gaston’s hand.

  “No. We’re going to my father’s guards.”

  “What—” A jab from a pointy weapon sent pain up Winslow’s spine.

  “Gaston, what in Desitrin’s name are you doing,” Keedar hissed.

  “You think we didn’t know about your meeting with him?” Gaston nodded toward Keedar. “I tried to warn you but you wouldn’t listen. You gave up your heritage for a fucking dreg? Who do you think it is down there? It’s the Consortium. Dregs like him. Whether they are trying to steal your father’s prize is of no concern. It’s all a part of the game we can use.”

  Winslow held up his hands. “Why, why would you do this?”

  “Like I said, Wins, Far’an Senjin. You’re so caught up in wanting to become a melder, chasing old stories, and befriending this dreg, you’ve lost yourself. You forget Far’an Senjin isn’t only for the counts, for the older folk, but us, the young men, the children due to inherit.”

  “We were friends.” Winslow closed his eyes, allowing a sense of relaxation to come over him. Count Cardiff’s advice echoed in his head; words that spoke of not trusting anyone and success and survival belonging together.

  “Were, Wins,” Gaston’s words held a sense of regret, “now it’s time for House Antelen to rise. I’m tired of your whining, about not wanting Elaina, your dreams of becoming a Blade. Well, you no longer need to fret, I’ll take her and your unborn child and make them mine.”

  Winslow snapped his eyes open, having drawn on his soul. Metal came to mind. He took as much energy as he could from the front of his body and thrust it to his rear.

  Gaston must have sensed something, for he stiffened, muscles bunching. The pressure from the blade disappeared for an instant. Winslow felt the thrust before it struck.

  Too late.

  His spine was as hard as the iron he’d pictured.

  Winslow dropped away from Gaston. In his periphery, he saw Keedar’s hand flash up. A small grunt issued from Gaston. When Winslow hit the ground and rolled, Gaston was falling.

  A dagger’s hilt protruded from Gaston’s eye.

  “No, no, no,” Winslow cried, the adrenaline from the moment washing away in horror. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. What have I done?”

  “Saved your life and mine.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, he was going to kill you and me.” Keedar walked over to Gaston’s body and pulled the dagger from the eye. It came out with a wet, sucking sound. He wiped it on the dead noble’s clothes. “You nobles and your damned game. Father suspected someone was giving them information but he wasn’t certain. It’s why I’m here instead of with them. My job is to help you escape if it all went wrong.”

  “No one was supposed to get hurt ...” Even as he said the words, Winslow knew how they sounded. Silly. Child-like. A dream. This all had to be a dream. He closed his eyes. If he pinched himself he’d wake up. When he opened them, Keedar was watching him, blades in hand, an eyebrow arched up. Winslow deflated.

  “You and many others like you are pawns, Winslow.” Keedar put away his knives with a flourish. “Pieces to Far’an Senjin, like the Smear, the Day of Accolades, like the Blades, like much of Kasandar and the world King Jemare rules. All that matters to them is soul. He who has the strongest soul, the quickest mind, the most devious plots, survives the longest. They visit any villages and towns or homes reported to have strong melders; they search and trace histories hoping to find Dracodar, slay them and take their magic; they kill mothers and fathers and steal orphaned children. Like you.”

  The last words were like a slap. “So what do we do now? I cannot
stay here. Count Cardiff will want me dead, so will Kesta, Gaston’s father. Not that I wanted to be here much longer anyway. You heard what he said about Elaina.”

  Keedar’s eyes widened. “It’s true?”

  “Yes. Our parents have always pushed us toward each other.”

  “What do you feel for her?”

  Winslow searched within himself. “I like her, but that’s as far as it goes. I’d love to see my son or daughter, raise them, but I know now, all that’s part of the game. Another soul for either side. One day, I will be back if she has the baby.” He made the words a promise.

  “First, we need to escape to see one day.”

  “Well, after that,” Winslow nodded toward Gaston’s corpse, “my route is out of the question.”

  “That was never going to be our path anyhow.” Keedar gave him a wry smile. “Follow me.”

  Left with no other choice, Winslow said a small prayer to the Dominion and headed after Keedar. They exited the storeroom and made their way down a few floors. Their only company this far into the Cardiff mansion was dust and cobwebs. Occasionally distant shouts passed above them. Each time Keedar stopped and waited. By the torchlight in the sconces on each landing, Winslow became aware of the footprints in the dusty stairwells where there should have been none. At another, larger storeroom, Keedar paused, put an ear to the door, and then nodded after a moment.

  Keedar eased the door open, and they snuck into blackness. The sound of rummaging came from nearby. A torch sparked to life a few seconds later. The fire cast dancing shadows along the walls. Mustiness and mold wormed their way up Winslow’s nostrils. Keedar led them along one wall before he stopped.

  After placing the torch in a sconce, Keedar began counting bricks along the wall, running his fingers along the mortar. When he found what he sought, he thumped the brick with the meaty side of his fist. The stone pressed in. With a rumble, a panel slid open. Keedar disappeared inside, the reek of sewage spilling from the opening.

  Knowing this would be the last time in the Cardiff mansion, on Mandrigal Hill, in fact, on the Ten Hills, Winslow took a look around him. The storeroom was as desolate as he felt. He could not recall ever feeling this alone, this lost. After a deep breath, he followed Keedar into the black slit.

  T he Bells Toll

  H ours later, Keedar led them out of the Undertow and the sewers into Pauper’s Circle.

  “The Smear?” Winslow gave him an incredulous stare.

  “Don’t worry.” Keedar chuckled. “With the way you smell and look, you’ll fit right in.”

  Winslow smirked. “This is no escape. The count will send his men here. The king also. It will be the Night of Blades all over again. Worse even.”

  “If they can prove what happened had anything to do with the Consortium and not just a part of your game.” Father’s plan had relied on that. Their spies within each house would drop rumor after rumor concerning who played what part, hinting at which Hill benefitted the most from each action. All the way to King Jemare.

  “I think you underestimate them.” Winslow gave a slow shake of his head as they eased away from the dilapidated buildings.

  The streets here were desolate as usual. Overhead, Antelen hung huge, an ominous reminder of how he’d slain Gaston. Orange illuminated the skyline over the Ten Hills. A distant roar like the ocean’s waves came from that direction along with tinny, metallic chimes.

  “Do you believe those were a real Dracodar’s remains?” Winslow asked.

  “You saw as much as I did. If the prices they were bidding wasn’t convincing, the soul coming from that thing must have been.” Keedar still couldn’t believe what he’d witnessed. “Hells’ Angels.”

  “But that would mean the Dracodar live, that the books Count Cardiff has …” Winslow’s voice trailed off.

  “It would appear that way.” Keedar let out a long breath. He would rather not have this conversation now, if ever.

  Winslow hung his head. “My father … Count Cardiff doesn’t need much of a reason to kill, but for this he will do anything. Word of us will reach him. What of Gaston’s knowledge? They are as likely to believe whatever Count Rostlin says. Even if only Antelen Hill and Mandrigal Hill come after you, their Blades will prove too much. Or have you forgotten that although they belong to the king, that the Blades can be commissioned as assassins by the counts? Besides, neither King Jemare nor Ainslen will stop at the noble houses if the container is not retrieved.”

  Keedar considered Winslow’s reasoning. Suppose he was right? Even if Father managed to escape with the Dracodar’s remains, what would stop the Hills and the king from sending the Blades into the Smear to search? Surely they would scour all of Kasandar. If the remains did what the legends stated, why wouldn’t they? Any who possessed the container would be a threat too large to ignore. Delisar must have foreseen this. He would have planned something else as a distraction. Something much bigger.

  “You have grown quiet. I assume you see the truth of my words?”

  “Yes.” Keedar’s heart sunk with the admission. “But it’s worse than you think.”

  “How so?”

  “After I escaped the mansion, my father’s orders were for me to remain down below with you. What you said explains why so many have gathered in the Undertow, leaving their belongings behind.” Keedar pointed at the orange hues limning the sky. He understood the earlier roar. “They’re fighting right now.”

  Winslow stopped. “They? What do you mean? The Consortium and the Hills?”

  “A little of them, but more of the King’s Blades against the Hills. It’s Succession Day, Winslow. That’s what my father and yours have begun.” The words made the cold night even colder.

  “May the Dominion save us,” Winslow whispered.

  “If only they could,” Keedar said. He had no belief in the Gods saving or doing anything for anyone. They offered no assistance the night Mother died, and they wouldn’t help tonight. If such a thing as divine intervention existed, they, like anyone else, looked out for their own interests first. “When things go horribly wrong, we’ll be saving ourselves.”

  “Why would your father do this? He cannot possibly hope to win out.”

  “Follow me while we talk. We need a better vantage to see what’s coming our way.” Keedar headed toward a building at the edge of Pauper’s Circle, keeping to the shadows.

  The structure was once a temple dedicated to the God of War, Humel, but was long since abandoned by any in the Smear who worshipped the Dominion. Shingles and bricks littered the ground; metal strips creaked in the breeze; lichen grew on the once pristine pillars at its base; and the statue of Humel—a gigantic creature made from earth as if a mountain walked and rode a chariot pulled by a massive one-eyed horse—had been toppled on its side. Bird droppings dotted its surface.

  Bypassing the God’s fearsome visage, Keedar headed up the stairs and through the gaping double doors. Inside was dark and cold, almost chillier than outside, and reeked of unwashed bodies and shit: the product of those who called the place home. Antelen’s fingers threaded through creases, filtering down from the many rents in the floors above, all the way to the broken roof. Much of the massive stone stairs leading up were still intact.

  Warning bells tolled, one by one, mourning throughout the Smear.

  Keedar broke into a run, taking the steps two and three at a time. When he staggered onto the roof and into cold air, he gasped.

  The earlier roar he’d heard, that he assumed must have been fighting along the Hills was much closer. The king’s armies had already brought the fight to the Smear. Banners bearing the Ten Hill’s insignia flew high, whipped into a frenzy by the wind. Soldiers massed near the Smear’s outskirts, whilst others marched down the streets, setting fire to structures and massacring any in their way. Several formations contained Blades, but not nearly as many as Keedar expected. The defenders died nonetheless.

  Consortium members, apparently not privy to Father’s scheme fought in pocket
s along various streets. They chose the ones narrow enough to provide them an advantage. Others used the rooftops to fire arrow after arrow into the armored troops.

  The king’s soldiers marched on undaunted despite how many fell. They spared no one. The old, the infirm, none of them mattered. Not even the children.

  Flames lit the blood-soaked streets and bodies in hellish hues.

  Keedar’s stomach clenched as he watched. It took an effort of supreme will not to retch. Beside him, Winslow whispered a prayer to Desitrin, the God of the Afterlife, the Ten Purgatories Guardian.

  On several streets, in their respective districts, the guilds formed their own ranks. The Shaded Snakes in their black and grey to the east; the Red Beggars, the crimson of their garb matching the blood flowing in the streets, took up position to the west. Directly in the middle were the Coinmen, the jewelry they favored glinting under the torchlight. Shipmen were sprinkled in among each group. Even with four main guilds and several minor ones, their numbers were incredibly inferior to the king’s army.

  “The guilds may be able to hold out for some time due to position and knowledge,” Winslow said, “but their defeat is inevitable. They should surrender now. Some bloodshed will sate the king’s appetite. They might be able to save the regular folk before the king dispatches more Blades. If they don’t, who knows what will be left then.”

  Half his sense told Keedar to run the rooftops, warn those who had decided to stay, beg them to flee into the Undertow. To see his people taken on the Day of Accolades was one thing. To see this massacre and do nothing would be another. Blocked in by the south walls as they were, leaving now would be the only hope for escape. The better part of him wanted to give in to the knowledge that such an effort would be wasted and might cost him his own life.

  He didn’t care. If he didn’t try, he might as well be one of the soldiers who partook in the slaughter. Keedar turned to Winslow. The young noble must have read his mind or seen the determination in his eyes.

  “You cannot save them.” Winslow shook his head. “Whatever plan your father had to escape, we need to follow it now.”