Annoyed by the lack of answers, he took one step toward the forest before he stopped and frowned, attention drawn to the western sky. There, a column of colors blazed. They sent a chill through him.
And so it begins, he thought, so it begins. He broke into a jog toward the Treskelin Forest’s dark tree line.
T est of S oul
D espite the reassuring presence of Uncle Keshka and Keedar, the enormity of the moment weighed on Winslow. Over the past few weeks the feeling had built, and even the playful forays into the edges of the Treskelin Forest with his brother did little to ease it. He relished those. He could be different then, a young man enjoying life, instead of one who could meet his end soon.
Winslow sighed. Either he returned from the Treskelin as a melder or he wouldn’t return at all. That was the sense the woods gave off. The mass of gigantic ash trees loomed before him, canopy near impenetrable, trunks like white pillars, roots a gathering of massive snakes that wormed their way underground to burst from earth rife with life and covered in a bed of humus. An unrelenting drizzle pattered, its voice like steam from a pipe. The Treskelin’s breath was wet earth, decay, and death.
To the west, a mass of vivid colors speared the clouds. The Crystal Skies, Keshka had named it.
Standing before the woods revived the memory of days spent hunting within the Parmien Forest with Count Cardiff, Gaston, and members of the court. Those days felt like a lifetime ago. The Parmien was a bright wonderland of orchards, spruces, and pines, a place one could bask beside a stream, dream the day away to birdsong, chirping insects, and cooling breezes. The Treskelin was a darker, dank forest, hot as the Ten Purgatories. It was a place of foreboding shadows and profound silences, punctuated by screeches and predators’ roars.
The worst winter in Winslow’s memory scoured the Kasinian Empire but did not affect the Treskelin Forest. A turgid mass of grey clouds boiled above him, clouds that should be dispensing the white blanket that coated other parts of the land, brought frost and rime, left things frozen in time. Instead, rain enough to drown the Treskelin fell in sheets.
In contrast, the Parmien Forest poked above the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows, limbs stalactites of ice that reached for the sky, the ground robed in white. The differences made him wonder if the Treskelin’s native Kheridisians were as the wisemen often preached: heretics who paid homage to dead Gods.
All this he had to conquer to earn the right to call himself a melder. Melder. Winslow rolled the word on his tongue, savored its taste. Nervous excitement fluttered in his belly.
For too long now he’d simply been gifted, a trainee, or a cycler as the Heleganese would call him, able to naturally manipulate a random soul cycle, but without any real control. The resulting magic was often inadvertent, like a drowning man not knowing how to swim but out of sheer desperation he kept himself afloat.
Becoming a melder was different. It meant thinking of an effect and creating it with a thought, with pinpoint control. A dream of his from the first day he’d seen the King’s Blades, majestic in their leather armor, the palm-sized pin of a sword shining on their lapels, able to wield soul magic like melders in the stories told by his nursemaid.
The last word made him wince. He no longer had a nursemaid. Or maids of any sort. No longer was he a boy of status. He was a hunted man. In a short few months he’d gone from the son of a count who was now king, to a commoner, the filth of society. An outlaw. A dreg.
Dreg.
The name reminded him of life’s peaks and valleys. One day you were on top of the world, bedding beautiful whores, drinking the finest wines, indulging in exotic meals. And the next, a hedge was your home, your arm was a pillow, and the cold, hard ground a friend you wished you did not know so intimately.
However, he still had a dream. Several in fact. Achieving this first one invariably led to the others. With a melder’s skills he could face his foes, confront the man he once considered a father, the man responsible for his mother’s death, the man who captured his true father and held him prisoner to be executed on the Day of Accolades. The man the Kasinians now called their king. The thought of Ainslen made Winslow’s blood boil, brought the bitter taste of hate to his mouth.
Not only had he sworn to free Delisar, Winslow had also vowed to get to know the son circumstance had forced him to abandon, the child he made with Elaina Shenen. Unlike himself, Jaelen would grow up knowing his true heritage. Never would the boy doubt his father’s love or who his father was. Winslow’s long hair and beard were reminders of that oath.
One last obstacle remained to fulfilling his first goal: the Fast of Madness. Winslow took a long, deep, calming breath. The anger deep in his gut lessened but did not completely disappear.
He flicked a gloved hand at the sweat and rainwater trickling down his cheeks and into his beard as he returned his attention to the woods. Passing the test meant so much that he couldn’t help his fear of failure. And yet he had that anticipation, a thrill for the challenge the Treskelin Forest presented. Bubbling beneath it was his dislike for the place. At times he swore he heard voices either pleading for him to stay away or beckoning him to enter. Neither boded well.
Keshka gave Winslow’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, fingers like iron despite his age. “You’re a Giorin, remember that. You will pass.”
The name made him consider his son again. He pictured month old Jaelen as a replica of himself and Elaina, smiling, happy. Winslow longed to see him, to hold him in his arms. Another dream of mine. Does he resemble her or me? He shook off the conjured images.
Regardless, Jaelen would be a Giorin also, despite Winslow’s own difficulty in perceiving himself as one of them, difficulty with the change in fortune as a whole. Although Delisar had treated him with nothing but respect in the training sessions, it had just been that: training. He’d thought fitting in would have been easier, knowing that Ainslen had stolen him from his parents, had killed his mother, that he had a real family now. But there were days when he struggled with it all, missed his old life, longed for its comfort and security.
“You’ll conquer this as easily as Keedar,” Keshka was saying.
“If that was easy, I wouldn’t want to see difficult.” Keedar spared his father a sidelong glance.
Winslow agreed. His brother was better and more developed in combat and soul magic. What Keedar lacked in his slender frame he more than made up for with speed and elusiveness. And despite all that, Keedar had returned bloody from his test, covered in scabs and half-healed wounds, not once sharing details of his ordeal.
“Anything you walk away from with all your limbs intact should be considered easy.” Keshka gave Keedar that easy smile of his, the permanent lines on his forehead those of a man who wore a constant frown. His snowy hair and white beard streaked with black suggested he had at least seventy years on him, and although he was much older than that, he had the physique of a man decades younger.
Keedar scowled at his father before he stepped up to Winslow, boots squelching through mud. “Whatever you see, whatever you hear, do not leave your shelter early. And remember to make a small hole for air.”
They grasped forearms, Winslow smiling at his brother’s concern. Keedar had become introverted since their rescue, focused on his training. When not involved in the litany of exercises and meditation, he seemed lost, thoughts distant, often staring toward the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows that hid Kasandar from sight. Their foray to the pond a few days ago had been a breath of fresh air until the bounty hunters ruined it.
“I’ll be back,” Winslow said.
“You’d better. I’d hate to save Delisar without you.”
“You won’t, that I promise.”
Winslow turned to his uncle. “Isn’t it time you told me exactly what happens if I fail?”
“You’ll belong to the forest.”
“Same thing you said last time. What does it mean?”
“You become a Wild One.” Keshka pointed toward the Treskelin’s brooding sh
adows.
Winslow couldn’t see the Wild Kheridisians, but he took Keshka’s word that they existed. He certainly felt as if he was being watched on many occasions, even now. Keshka claimed they were men and women who had either given their souls to the forest or had them taken. Winslow cringed at either prospect.
A low growl from Snow added to his trepidation. The derin lay near the cottage. Head raised, she peered at the forest before settling back down. Snow was the size of a pony, fangs like pointed forearms, snout short and broad. He still found it difficult to comprehend Keshka’s ability to tame the beast. Not even the houndmasters could achieve such a feat, and they were among the Empire’s most renowned trainers.
“Are you ready?” Keshka asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, but what if I happen across another set of bounty hunters?”
“You won’t. They know better than to venture this deep into the Treskelin. And even if they do, Snow’s pack will dissuade them.”
Winslow nodded.
“Remove your weapons,” Keshka ordered.
Winslow took his foot-long dagger from the sheath at his waist. He removed another knife he’d slipped inside the hidden sleeve in his boots.
“Hold them out before you, and then let them fall.”
The weapons landed in the mud with wet sounds. Winslow felt those eyes on him again, a prickling sensation that crawled up the back of his neck.
“Remember,” Keshka said aloud, “don’t pick any fruit or harm any creature within the forest. Due northwest from here you’ll find a clearing. You’ll know the one when you enter it. Make yourself a shelter like we practiced outside the Treskelin.” Winslow nodded even as tension built inside of him.
“It’s fine to be afraid.” Keshka had lowered his voice. “Respect fear; it’s one of the greatest motivators, but you are its master. A man can fall flat if he lets fear overwhelm him, but that same man can accomplish great things because of it. Fear for his loved ones, fear of death, fear of failure. Only you can decide which man you want to be. Learn when to listen to your soul and not your mind, and when to follow your heart. It’s a precarious balance. The wrong step in any direction and you’re dead.”
“All this talk of having fear, whatever happened to bravery?” Winslow quipped.
“Bravery isn’t the lack of fear, but a victory over it. Besides, being brave is one part idiocy, one part balls, and two parts death wish. Now, repeat our mantra.”
“I will not stop running until I reach the clearing. I will not leave the shelter once I create it, no matter what I see or hear.” The words left Winslow’s mouth without thought. After repeating it a thousand times a day for the past months, the recitation was like breathing. But for one significant difference: with the imminent test, the words hinted at extreme danger. He swallowed. “How, how will I know it’s time to leave or that the test is finished.”
“You simply will. Now, begin.”
Winslow focused on the thirty-two vital points. They came alive, soul gushing forth to connect them together along his head, arms, legs, and torso, the final one at his heart. Three circular rings, like luminescent smoke, one inside the other, enclosed each vital point. Within the rings were the soul cycles, balls of concentrated energy he could draw upon. The outer and median rings contained three cycles each, while the last held four. The act of opening the flow of soul magic brought a rush. His entire body tingled.
In his mind’s eye, he drew on the first of the outer cycles, sintu . His soul sprang up around his body, forming a foot-thick nimbus. His surroundings changed. He felt the patter of raindrops moments before they touched him, the wind before it brushed the hairs on his arm, the individual grains of sand in his boots. With his first step forward, he sensed the mud before his feet touched the ground.
The lump in his throat and the flutters in his gut receded. So did the quiet urges from the Treskelin’s confines.
Winslow bounded forward. He ran, pulling on the third cycle, tern, hardening the nimbus below his feet, but at the same time making it malleable to conform to the mud. Within moments he was sprinting. Not once did he slip.
The forest swallowed him.
As he wove his way through the trees, footfalls deadened by the mattress of humus, he increased the use of tern around his ears. His hearing sharpened. The patter of raindrops and water runoff became clear, he pinpointed distant wolf howls and bear roars, the rustle of critters through underbrush. Stealthy footsteps kept pace to his left and right, accompanied by the even breathing of a practiced runner. Something much bigger loped farther ahead, hidden by deep shadows.
His heart thudded against his ribs, but he refused to allow fear to overcome him. Instead, he focused on what lay ahead.
By the use of sintu he dodged branches before they could whip his arms and legs, ducked those too high, and leaped over roots that would trip him. He and the forest were one, its dappled shadows a friend. He made certain to maintain his sintu to keep out any attempts to bend his mind. The trees and creatures in the Treskelin were known for such skills. He’d seen more than one beast walk into a tangle of thorns or become ensnared within vines. A fawn had once trotted over to Snow, mesmerized, laid on the ground, and not even offered so much as a kick when the derin bit into its throat.
Something massive, furred, snarling, and all claws and fangs bounded from his periphery. The beast leaped.
Winslow’s heart stopped, but his reaction was instinctive. He directed tern to the area, solidifying his sintu . The creature slammed into it. Winslow didn’t slow to see the effect; he kept on running full tilt.
He lost track of time and the number of attacks he survived. A few were head-sized stones or arrows and spears that he deflected with his augmented nimbus. Inevitably, his speed and strength ebbed.
Breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face, heart a beating drum, he drew on the second of the outer cycles, koren . His heart rate slowed and a sense of invigoration swept through him. However, the next stone that flew from the forest’s confines passed through his sintu . He dodged, barely avoiding the rock.
Winslow could feel the soul draining from his vital points. If this clearing was much longer in its appearance he would fall to whatever enemies and beasts pursued him. As the thought crossed his mind a light appeared a few hundred feet ahead, brighter than the other patches allowed in by the dense canopy. With an extra surge he headed for it, goaded by a sense that he had almost completed this part of the test.
Eyes narrowing as he drew closer, Winslow thought to slow, but was spurred on by his pursuers. He burst into a clearing and almost fell, his body in shock as he went from humidity that left his clothes soaked and sticking to his skin, into air so frigid his legs buckled. Stumbling in knee-deep snow, he wheezed, immediately hugging himself. His hold on sintu fled, and he fell head first into the powdery fluff.
Somehow, he managed to scramble forward. Turning onto his back he clawed at his empty weapon sheath. Eyes darting from side to side, he scanned the woods for his pursuers. He saw nothing but shadows and trees. Low growls and padded footsteps abounded, but no man or beast stalked after him.
With relief came the cold, biting into him. He forced his mind to work. Warmth. I need warmth.
A large tree occupied the middle of clearing. This one wasn’t ash; it was oak, the trunk perhaps a hundred feet across. Hoarfrost crowned its leafless branches.
He pushed himself to his feet and trudged to it. A swirling wind kicked up, making him wish for a hooded cloak. Thick flakes pelted him, encrusting his hair and eyelids.
Picking a spot downwind, he cleared snow from the area near the trunk, scooping with fingers that fought against his efforts to stretch them out. He stuck his hands under his armpits and proceeded to sweep away the rest of snow with his feet. When he finished he sank down against the trunk, hands and feet long having lost all feeling.
His soul was dismally low. One chance remained for him to build the shelter.
Shuddering, he picture
d a dog kennel with a finger-sized opening for air. Drawing in a deep breath he opened his vital points as wide as he could manage. Soul gushed forth. He fed it to sintu, and then hardened it with tern , shaping it into the image of the dome he held in his mind. He pushed the sides away from his body. Flakes drifted down to the exterior and stuck. Time dragged as the snow collected. He lost track of how long he managed to hold the last trickle of sintu augmented with tern . A moment before unconsciousness devoured him Winslow imagined a fireplace. It was the last image before his mind went black.
S igns
T he throne room was abuzz with talk of the Heleganese representatives. Did they come to pledge their allegiance or to personally declare war? King Ainslen Cardiff wondered, leaning back into the Soul Throne, the great ivory, silver, and gold seat that was not simply a chair but part of the wall from which it jutted. The diminutive, milk-skinned people from the north had ever been a strange sort, if a bit too bold. He did have one surety. They were not here to make an attempt on his life. They always let a man know their intentions before dispatching their spirit assassins. A show of honor, they called it. He preferred to name it stupidity. You didn’t let a free man know you wanted him dead. You did the deed before he had a chance to prepare himself.
“I lost another dozen men, sire,” Count Leroi Shenen said through clenched teeth.
Preoccupied by his thoughts, King Cardiff had forgotten the fair-haired count was standing beside the throne. Leroi’s lithe frame and shifty eyes gave the impression of a snake poised to strike. The king had hoped that the sound thrashing he gave the count had disabused Leroi of any treacherous thoughts. Perhaps he underestimated the man’s perseverance. “I warned you not to send them into the Treskelin, but you would not listen. Now, you suffer the consequences.”
“What would you have me do? Pretend all is well? Sit around and wring my hands like a woman?” Shenen’s face was dark with anger. “I should ask why it is that you seem to have so little concern for Winslow’s safety, but then his upcoming marriage to my daughter was to seal our pact, a pact you no longer need to recognize in his absence. I—”
The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series Page 30
