The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  “Would be careful of my words if I were you,” Ainslen said, voice even. “Your tone flirts with accusation, so, let me be clear before your mouth finds itself bedded by my sword. Winslow is my son; it is struggle enough to consider what he might be suffering at the hands of his captors, or to think he might be dead, without the hint of an insult flitting around that small mind of yours. If I wanted to sever our ties, I would’ve killed you on Succession Day. Instead, I provided you with more power than you have ever seen, and kept to my part of our bargain despite the absence of a marriage. A grandson is binding enough, I should think.”

  “I wish to believe you, but Winslow should be your successor at Mandrigal Hill and yet you allowed Katuro to take your old house. As if that were not issue enough, you still have not sent men out to the Treskelin, perhaps some Blades, or these Farlanders of yours.”

  “Katuro was ready for the rigors of the court. Winslow was not. The holdings of Mandrigal Hill requires experience,” the king said. “As for the Treskelin, I haven’t sent anyone into its confines for the same reason that began this conversation: your dead men. In time, I will deal with the Kheridisians and whomever might have taken my son, but for now I must pick my battles with care. Until they do more than send messages, I have other issues to attend, an Empire to mend. After we bring Thelusia and Marissinia to heel, then we can deal with the issue of my son and those godless people hidden within the Treskelin Forest.”

  “I have your word?” Shenen asked.

  “You do.”

  “Very well.” The count’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “In the meantime, how do I deal with these rumors?”

  “Ignore them,” the king said, shrugging. “As I explained to you before, Winslow’s mother was half Marish, eyes as slanted as your grandson, Jaelen. You do remember my beloved wife, Marjorie, don’t you?” Shenen nodded. “Good. In the same fashion that a few of us show traits from other bloodlines, it’s been passed down to the boy. It’s the will of the Dominion. I, for one, do not question the choices made by the Gods. Neither should you.”

  “You sit upon the Soul Throne, so you would not.” Licking his lips, Leroi cast nervous glances at the throne. Greed lived in those eyes. So did fear.

  “That I do.” Ainslen leaned over to the count. “I know what you feel, my friend. I suffered much the same foolishness. Do as I did: if you hear word from any man questioning your grandson’s parentage, then challenge him to a duel. After you kill the first few, they will get the message. Now, if it’s not too much, our guests should be here at any moment.”

  “Yes, sire.” Count Shenen bowed stiffly before striding away toward the other nobles.

  Expelling a breath, Ainslen sat back on his throne but did not relax. He couldn’t, for the Soul Throne ate those who sat upon it. Not literally. It didn’t devour their meat, bones, and blood; it partook of their soul. And a person’s soul was as much a part of them as their physical being. While sitting upon the chair he fought a constant battle to prevent it from consuming him.

  To negate the leeching effect, he could’ve chosen a similar path as Jemare and so many other monarchs before him: encase the throne in its mold of grey metal. But then he wouldn’t feel alive. The persistent battle was a reminder that things more powerful than him existed in the world. He had the mold consigned to a storeroom.

  Thinking of the throne, he stroked the armrest, tracing his fingers along its silver-scaled design. Another person might think the scales an intricate work of a master metalsmith, but he knew them for what they were.

  Dracodar scales.

  Someone had crafted the throne using parts taken from beasts most thought to be dead, their remains powerful relics coveted by the nobility. Not only that, but the wall itself held even more secrets: the bones of legendary Blades as well as other remains, those placed there by Jemare in his heinous practice from the Trial of Bravery. That last made him grimace. Perhaps, like Hemene the Savage, the Soul Throne had driven Jemare mad, for only one who had lost himself to the soul craze would’ve committed such atrocities against noble children.

  Expression still sour, Ainslen thought of the man held prisoner in the dungeons, proof the Dracodar still lived. He could see Delisar even now, golden scales bursting through a layer of human skin. As he’d done on several occasions, the king wondered if Keedar and Winslow were the same, this change dormant in them. The king shook his head, not wanting to believe his own imagination.

  Even more fascinating was the idea that Jemare had known of Delisar and his family this entire time. Prior to the Night of Blades, the dead king had revealed his suspicions as to the location of Tharkensen and Elysse, but not once had Jemare mentioned that he suspected the renowned female assassin of being a Dracodar.

  Ainslen frowned. Or had the king not known? Was it a chance discovery? Ainslen himself hadn’t realized his find until he had Delisar in chains, recognized the man’s face and smell from the Night of Blades. All these years spent tracing their bloodlines, hoping to take advantage of the Smear’s dregs, when in fact there were actual Dracodar among them.

  The Night of Blades played out in his head. He sent Kenslen to take the Trial of Bravery, the test that particular night serving two purposes: to ascertain the skill level of the noble children and for an assault into the Smear led by King Jemare himself. When he returned home from a meeting he discovered Marjorie’s note, stating she’d chased after their son to stop his participation in the trial.

  With High Priest Jarod as his guide, he dashed into the Smear, but before they could find Marjorie, they were caught in Jemare’s battle at some home in Pauper’s Circle. Elysse’s home, he later discovered. He witnessed Jemare gorge himself on Dracodar remains and stumble outside, infused with unbelievable power. Unable to resist, he partook of what little was left, watching as the soldiers battled against Delisar and Tharkensen.

  Afterward, drunk with the soul craze, he’d stumbled through the Smear, following Jarod. Until he encountered Marjorie. He relived the horror of her battered face, of her stomach deflated when hours before it had been swollen with child. He had vomited at the mess that was their baby, delivered stillborn, and turned on Kenslen where the young boy whimpered nearby. His son’s weakness disgusted him. He drew his sword, pulled on his soul, and with a stroke, he took Kenslen’s head.

  Deep into the craze, and filled with rage, he became aware of the soul seeping from the still warm bodies. He hungered for it. At the same time it struck him that his family was dead. He wanted them returned to him. He would do anything to have them back in any form. So he made their souls a part of his.

  Stumbling through the Smear he’d come across Winslow, wailing, alone and cold. He’d seen the soul in the baby and took him. After that night, that taste, his hunger was never sated.

  Ever since he was a young boy, the Blades had enraptured him, and so did the tales of their predecessors, the Dracodar. The exploits of men like Gothien the Shadow Blade, his old mentor, or Myron the Sun Blade, and Roslav Quickthrust had inspired him to greater heights, made him dream of a day when the king would pin the sword to his lapel, and he would earn a title like theirs. Even Tharkensen the Lightning Blade, who he’d fought beside before the man turned traitor, had played a part in his growth. Thar’s speed and namesake strikes had fit his legend. When the king stopped to consider the names, he hadn’t seen them as dregs at that time, but as great warriors, melders that he wished to outstrip.

  After he left the Smear that night he set out on his quest, not only to find remains, but also to discover the possibility that some Dracodar still lived. He poured his resources into archaeological finds across Mareshna, all the way to the Farlands. He even trained with the Order to access their knowledge and to borrow coin from them for his endeavors.

  His research revealed that for years the Smear’s dregs had hidden their most gifted children from the wisemen on the Day of Accolades. In that time, the old, loyal Blades had died, some in battles, and others of natural causes.

&
nbsp; The effects of the dregs’ actions had been far-reaching, depleting the Empire’s armies of one of its greatest assets. He had sworn to change that. Already, he possessed one key, and soon he would have another. Patience, he told himself, patience.

  Memories subsiding, Ainslen shuddered, the need to rush down into the dungeons and tear into Delisar almost overwhelming him. His soul surged, essences pouring from his body. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, and forced the vital points from open circular nodes into tiny slits. The Soul Throne partook, but he was unconcerned. With an effort of will he could retrieve the power it stored.

  As he waited for the delegates, the king contemplated the lack of any attempt to save Delisar. The escaped Consortium members did not know the location of their leader’s prison, but until recently, Delisar was flogged at the gibbets, and criers announced each punishment beforehand. He had also mentioned plans for an upcoming execution where they might be overheard. Could I be wrong about the Lightning Blade? Is he really dead? If so, then who was it that saved Winslow and Keedar? He would find out soon enough, even if it meant launching an assault into Kheridisia.

  “Sire?” Sabella’s soft voice was a distant echo. “The Heleganese ambassadors have entered.”

  At the throne room’s arched doorway, Lieutenant Costace of the watchmen waited in front of the six ambassadors. Costace, a rather large, swarthy Farish Islander, had made a good accounting of himself when he reported of Winslow’s rescuer on Walker’s Row and for the swift action he took on Succession Day in deploying the watch. That last had saved the Vermillion District and Artisan Quarter from much destruction. For such work, and quick thinking, Ainslen intended to see Costace raised to marshal. The king gave the lieutenant a nod of assent, and Costace stepped aside.

  The procession of three men and three women glided down the carpeted colonnade, such was the grace with which the Heleganese moved. They reminded Ainslen of a derin stalking its prey: striding with ease yet ready to kill at a moment’s notice. The best Blades, the ones that had earned their names, carried themselves in a similar manner.

  Clothed in dark woolens, the men in trousers and jackets, the women in dresses that tapered to the waist before flaring out again, they stared straight ahead as if no one else existed but the king. Rich fur lined the openings of their garb, around the armholes and neckline. Their choice of color made their pasty faces stand out, faces, that while set in determination, also showed signs of weariness. The translucent nimbus of sintu surrounded each of them, but they were not drawing on the first soul cycle. This was their natural state.

  Accomplished melders, then. Powerful too.

  He suppressed a smile at their confidence; it brimmed to the point of arrogance. Not once had they acknowledged the score of Blades arrayed to his left and right. They had eyes only for him. The buzz of conversation around the room lowered, and then ceased completely. In a synchronous move, the Heleganese bowed, right knees almost touching the floor.

  “Rise.” Ainslen beckoned to them. “Be welcome as servants to the Kasinian Empire.” Two of them stiffened: a man in dark blue and a woman in storm cloud grey.

  The Heleganese drew themselves to their full height. None of them stood beyond six feet, typical for their race, but they might as well have been giants. A man in nutmeg-colored garb, a scar running from the corner of his mouth to his cheek, took one step ahead of the others. The warning shift by the Blades did not elicit so much as a bat of an eyelid from him.

  “Your Highness, thank you for the warm welcome.” Shorter than the others by a head, the man had a thick accent yet spoke fluent Kasinian. “We six are the Voices, the chosen representatives of the many tribes that inhabit Helegan.” He dipped his head once. “I am Kulabi Danaheem.” Kulabi indicated the man in dark blue who had eyes to match his clothes. “This is Tyoti Torenteen.” He gestured to the last man in charcoal with too big ears and a bulbous nose. “Anuvas Morteneen.” Both men nodded. “Garavi Deshintoh.” The woman in grey. “Janisi Lentonoh.” A silver-haired woman, aged lines around her eyes, curtsied. The others gave her an astonished look before fixing their faces back to seriousness. “And lastly, Padama Halava.” Padama was a hard woman. The king could tell from the set of her sky-blue eyes so much like ice, and the lack of expression. She offered him a mere tilt of her head.

  Already, Ainslen disliked this bunch. Kulabi’s practiced formality was too flowery by half, the others too silent, eyes seeming to see little when in fact they caught everything. These were dangerous people. It was best to give them a hint of what they faced and save them both the trouble of bloodshed. Better to find a use in a man first before you were forced to kill him.

  “So,” Ainslen said, “you Heleganese have remained distant for centuries, paying your tributes, but not involving yourselves much in politics. Ever since the day your spirit assassins tried to kill Jemare, and I stopped them. To what do I owe this honor?” He lounged back into the Soul Throne.

  Kulabi glanced at the others. Shocked expressions showed on all but Tyoti and Garavi. Tyoti made a complicated set of gestures with his hands, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

  “We apologize for any slight a misguided attempt by one of the lesser tribes may have caused, but the Overlords resolved that issue when they delivered the heads of the chieftains responsible,” Kulabi said.

  “True enough. So enlighten me as to your presence. Is it because Jemare is dead? Or concern for your neighbors?”

  “No to both.”

  Surprisingly, the words resonated with truth. He thought for sure they’d come to grovel at his feet as a result of his Thelusian campaign. His Farlanders and Blades had routed the first army they faced. When they were done, Helegan would be next.

  “We are here with a request,” Kulabi said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “First, a few questions if you will, Your Highness.”

  Ainslen nodded.

  “What significance does the Crystal Skies hold for your people?”

  The question was a strange one. Not at all what King Cardiff expected. The Crystal Skies had appeared several days ago, but he hadn’t given the occurrence much thought beyond marveling that it happened in his lifetime. He pondered the question a moment before he answered. “Besides their beauty, they signified the Blight and the Thousand Year War, the rise of Cortens Kasandar, and the fall of Hemene the Savage.

  Kulabi nodded. “All great catastrophes. Even the Skies’ origins are a cause for concern.”

  “And another has occurred again when I have come into to power?” Ainslen made a steeple of his fingers and regarded the man with dead eyes. “If there’s something you’re alluding to, I would tread carefully.”

  “That was not my intention, sire. I apologize.” The Voice bowed deeply.

  The king smirked. “Cortens’ rise to power is why we rule, why we still exist. There is no catastrophe in that. Hemene deserved to die. He was a monster, partaking of his own people like some western savage. As for their origins, that would only be a concern if you believe the tales that the Crystal Skies are caused by the opening of the Pillars of Dissolution. If you do, then where are the Gods? Or better yet, Hell’s Angels, since the Pillars are said to lead to the Ten Purgatories. No one has returned with proof as to the cause of the Crystal Skies. Except for Etien, no one has been to the Pillars, and his accounts might be called the musings of a madman.”

  During his studies of melding and Dracodar secrets he had seen a drawing of the Pillars in one of the partial copies of Etien’s Compendium in the Grand Library. They were depicted as metal and stone structures a hundred feet tall from which light shot into a sky filled with swirling clouds. Supposedly the Dominion had entered the world through them. When they built the Ten Heavens, they changed the worlds beyond the Pillars into the Ten Hells and set Angels to guard them as punishment for betrayal.

  The tale first intrigued him because most renditions of those Angels were eerily similar to scaled Dracodar, albeit with wings. The Order claimed the
Angels were, in fact, banished Dracodar. Some claimed the stories were supported by the Dracodar practice of sacrificing children born without soul magic by throwing them through the Pillars. He wished he could get his hand on a complete or original version of the book to delve deeper into these tales.

  “My belief matters not,” Kulabi said. “What matters is the belief of the Berendali and the other western kingdoms.”

  “Perhaps it’s of concern to you, but not to us. Those lands are filled with nothing but savages and blasphemers.”

  “Blasphemers preparing for war on your empire.”

  “What?” Ainslen sat up straight. Murmurs rose around the room as word spread. He raised his hand. The susurrus drifted into silence.

  Kulabi continued, his scar tugging at the corner of his mouth. “For thousands of years the western kingdoms have followed the Dracodarian ritual of sending children through the pillars as part of their worship. Their holy books tell them that one of their descendants will trigger the Crystal Skies and bring about a war to unite the land. Every ten years they war with each other for the right to send through one of the chosen, a person whose soul they cannot see.

  “Our merchants and spies report a massing of troops in the west, which was to be expected when the time comes for the ritual. However, unlike before, this was not for a battle amongst themselves; they had united. The only other times they have done so were two instances against your people.”

  “But those were in response to us invading their lands,” Ainslen said. “First was Cortens’ obsession with the Pillars and annihilating the Dracodar to the last child, and then Hemene’s madness.”

  “At first we thought the reports relayed another one of their attempts at breaking the barrier formed by the Pillars,” Kulabi said, “or one of their many conflicts with our other neighbors, the Caradorii. That was before we discovered that the Caradorii, their life-long enemies, have also sided with them.”