The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

“If you insist.”

  Winslow pushed open the door, entered, and then pulled the latch into place behind him. Shirtless, skin glistening by candlelight, his brother sat on the bed. The odor of sweat hung thick in the air. Keedar’s chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of a person relaxing after prolonged exertion.

  “So, what is it?” Keedar wiped at his forehead with a cloth.

  Winslow moved closer, lowering his voice so only his brother could hear. “With our guards, there’s no way for us both to go to Delisar’s aid.”

  “Tell me something of which I’m unaware.”

  “I think I’ve discovered a way for one of us to make it to Kasandar. That one would be you.” Winslow laid out his plan.

  T wo G old B its

  S lamming the cabin door behind him, Keedar stormed across the deck after Winslow. Their argument began soon after Stomir had slipped over the stern and into the river. By now the Kheridisian would be aboard the hauler.

  “How dare you speak of my father in such a way,” Keedar yelled after his brother.

  Winslow turned to face him, the chill wind blowing his hair across his face, adding to the shadows cast by the lamplight. “Strange that you should speak proudly of a thief, a man who all but abandoned you. But then, why should I expect anything different? You’re just like him.”

  “Without him you would be dead in the Smear,” Keedar spat. Although the crew lacked the details of their relationship, they did have some knowledge of Winslow’s story. To them he was a noble who had taken up for the Smear’s people.

  “Stop this madness,” Captain Ezrakel called from the ship’s bow. “Aren’t you good friends?”

  “Were,” Winslow said, scowling. “He’s nothing to me now.” To one side, Janosen and Harskel smirked as they watched.

  “Come on, you two,” the captain pleaded, “what’s this all about?”

  “He claims I stole his lady.” Keedar smiled sheepishly.

  “Claims? Claims? You bedded her!”

  “Wins, I didn’t know.” Keedar held out his hands, palms up in a gesture of helplessness. “What was I supposed to do?”

  The rest of the crew started to take notice. They were gathering atop the upper deck, leaning over the wooden rails.

  “Any man that takes his friend’s woman ought to be ashamed of himself,” someone shouted.

  “Maybe the other man wasn’t much of a man,” called another. That brought a laugh.

  “How could you not know?” Winslow quivered with rage. The display was quite convincing, even to Keedar. “We met her together at the Glittering Lady. You saw that I was taken with her.”

  “The Glittering Lady?” Captain Ezrakel called. “Did he just say the Glittering Lady?” A pained expression crossed his face.

  “Sure did, Cap’n,” Harskel answered.

  “Aren’t any ladies there … nothing but whores in that place,” the captain said.

  “See?” Keedar said to Winslow. “Even he agrees.” Grinning, he glanced up at Ezrakel. “Two gold bits, I paid. And she was worth every bit … the things she could do with her tongue.”

  That brought a roar of laughter from the men. Several slapped each other on the back. A warning yell made Keedar turn. Snarling, Winslow slammed his shoulder into Keedar’s stomach. The blow knocked the air from Keedar.

  They scuffled, trying to get a better hold of each other. The shouts and jeering increased, the crew picking sides. As they wrestled, throwing punches into each other’s midsections, they gradually maneuvered toward the edge of the deck and its rails. On the river, Antelen’s light was a swath of silver that cut across a rippling black.

  “Seventh step,” Keedar whispered while grappling with his brother. “Three more.”

  During the day, they had planned it all, knowing exactly how many paces it would take. When Keedar’s boot thumped the wood behind him, he pulled on Winslow’s jacket and at the same time came up gasping for air. Winslow swung, a wide, sweeping punch. Keedar ducked under it and swept his arm around into his brother’s back. With a choked cry, Winslow toppled overboard and splashed into the River Ost.

  Silence filled the night. Then there came a mad rush to the railing. Several sailors leaped into the water. Captain Ezrakel bellowed orders.

  In the chaos, Keedar slunk across to the opposite side of the deck and shimmied down the rope Stomir used on his exploits. Upon reaching the knots near the end he held himself suspended long enough to solidify his soul into a cocoon to keep out the cold. He slipped quietly into the water. He felt a chill, but better that than the river’s full freezing bite.

  Threading water for a moment, he applied the meld he and Winslow had worked on over the last few days when they considered escaping together. He manifested a replica of the reed they used when diving in their favorite pond, but this time with a curve on the end like a pipe that he placed into his mouth. With a thick layer of soul he closed any openings around his lips. Keedar steeled himself and dived, and before long he was well on his way to Kasandar.

  Swimming the Ost near Kasandar, or in the smaller rivers and lakes that dotted the Parmien Forest, had been a common practice of his as a child, but he’d never before swam during winter. For the most part his melds protected him, but they could only do so much. Eventually he began to feel more of the cold seeping into him, the heavy drag of his clothes, the burning sensation as his legs and arms tired.

  When he surfaced some time later, the coastline was an undulating dark mass, the blacker imprints of trees standing out against the night sky. Kasandar’s lights were distant things that called to him and yet gave the impression that he might never reach them. He focused on them, filling his mind with the good memories of his days there, of Delisar’s soft voice urging him on during their training sessions, of his time spent running the roofs, learning the city, the studies with his many tutors and lecturers, even the months with his brother before Succession Day. I will make it, Uncle Delisar. I will help you. Just hold on.

  That one purpose engulfed him. He would make it to Kasandar and find some way to help the man he had called his father for most of his life. By the time he swam close to Kasandar’s ramparts, he could barely feel his body. With the wall as a guide he dived, continuing underwater into the harbor.

  The boats here moved much slower, and soon he’d attached himself to one, his head bobbing above the water. It was a risky maneuver but the ice along the many piers gave him no choice. When the boat was almost to the pier he dived across to another vessel that was already berthed.

  Keedar waited, fighting against the cold as his soul dwindled. When he was certain no one would traverse this particular dock, he heaved himself up onto its wet planks, and flopped on his back, muscles and skin numb. The next few moments found him gasping for breath, shivering as the cold crashed down on him like a winter squall.

  Get up. You have to get up. As much as he told himself that, another part of him wanted to stay as he was, to take a little rest, perhaps sleep. He might never wake if he did. Not out in the freezing cold. He struggled to his feet, gasping for breath, clothes dripping icy water, and made his way to one of the nearby bonfires the dockworkers kept lit for themselves and seamen. The crackling fire felt so good he almost collapsed next to it.

  “Hey, you!” called a commanding voice.

  Hunched over, Keedar shifted to see the speaker. His vision swam, but he made out a guard in the Empire’s gold and red uniform.

  “From the looks of you, you’re no seaman or dockworker,” the man said, eyeing Keedar’s leathers and woolens. “A drunk, then. Be off with you before some of the others come back and decide to have some fun.”

  Keedar offered the man a nod and staggered away. Drawing from memory he realized that this particular pier was in the Burrows, a warren of alleys and lanes in the River Quarter. His vision grew hazier as he walked. What he needed now was warmth, dry clothes. The taverns were out of the question, even those once loyal to the Consortium. He could think of only one place,
one man, he dared trust. Martel.

  He bypassed men and women in the throes of revelry, laughter raucous, voices jumbled. A few even gave him a good-natured slap on his back. It took the better part of an hour stumbling through slush and mud strewn streets in the Burrows before he reached one of the bridges that led to the higher levels of the city and more affluent neighborhoods in the River Quarter.

  When he was certain no one was approaching, he made his way down the stairs beside the bridge. The water in the channel underneath was frozen solid. A gate stood out in one wall. The tunnel behind it was one of the Consortium’s many smuggling routes. He felt along the wall until he found the small groove and the switch that opened the gate. He pushed on the metal bars, and after several tries the gate swung inward.

  Keedar stepped into the darkness. Something hard smashed him in the head. Blackness claimed him.

  D racodarian S teel

  K ing Cardiff sat at the head of the table in the judgment chamber, the Heleganese proclamation before him. Seated at the chairs normally occupied by High Priests were the Order’s Elder Ten. They had arrived with much celebration and pomp, bringing with them thousands of wisemen to bless Kasandar and the Empire’s restoration. The king smiled as he read the proclamation. The Heleganese would field an army in support of the Empire. Word had also arrived from his soldiers in Marissinia. They had put down the Marish rebels in the Blooded Daggers and the forests of Keshan Dark. It was as much as he’d expected after the display in Rion.

  The eight men and two women at the table were all dressed in the Order’s traditional garb, each with the Star of the Dominion prominent on the right breast over the heart. Gold chains hung from their necks with the insignia for each God they represented.

  “So, you have made the Empire whole,” Elder Hamada declared. He was a smooth-faced man whose knuckles were great knobs of bone—signs of his skill as a Magnifier and in martial combat. Next in line to be the Patriarch, or so word had it, Hamada thought much of himself. He was supposed to be Kheridisian, but the king doubted that account.

  “As I promised.” Ainslen dipped his head.

  “And you felt it in your right to call for a meeting with Father and Mother?” Elder Merisse was of a tanned-complexion that might have passed for a Farish Islander. Ainslen often wondered if she had any tattoos. She, too, was a senior among the Elders, slated to replace Janania when the Matriarch died.

  “That was the agreement offered me by High Priest Jarod,” the king said.

  A discussion followed between the Elders. It sickened Ainslen that something as simple as a visit with Corgansetti and Janania could elicit such a contentious meeting. You would think I asked to meet one of the Gods. He let them continue on, for this was their way. As long as they came to the correct decision, he cared not how they arrived at it. The Elders dwindled to silence.

  “Permission has been granted,” Hamada said. “We shall make the arrangements.”

  “Good.” Ainslen sucked in a breath. He’d thought long and hard about this bit since it came to mind the night Jarod revealed the Order’s plans. He had not brought the Empire together to see it fall into some other count’s hands by way of Far’an Senjin. “What I have done has not been achieved since the Fabled and Golden Eras, the height of our civilization.” His chest swelled with pride. “However, unlike those days, the Word of the Dominion will now be spread to all corners of Mareshna.”

  “As agreed,” Merisse said.

  “Such an undertaking will outlive me. As such, we will need to maintain a line of kings who honor this pact.”

  The buzz of conversation picked up as Elders leaned over to whisper to each other. Word carried back and forth across the table.

  “We can see the value of this. What is it you propose?” Elder Hamada’s eyes narrowed as he spoke.

  “That you announce a change in our rites of Succession. The crown will now be inherited, passed down by the right of blood.”

  The room became still. Ainslen could hear the crackle of the fire in the hearth. A mosquito buzzed by his face and alighted on the hand of one of the Elders. The man flicked his finger and shooed it away. By the way the Elders peered at each other and regarded him, this was not unexpected.

  “Mother and Father warned us of this possible path,” Merisse said slowly, but in her voice was a hint of tiredness, of resignation.

  “It is the only way to assure the Word is spread continually,” Ainslen said. “It also prevents the current situation I just resolved. No longer will we have to fear another Empire War or some other form of prolonged turmoil during Succession Day.”

  “Although true, of greater concern will be the people’s reactions, the reactions of the counts. They will not take this lightly.” Hamada’s face was grim. “If they stand against you, there will be another Empire War.”

  Ainslen smiled. “I’m well prepared for such issues. First, I made certain no Farlanders are in the city, to appease the malcontent about the foreigners. I’ve also arranged major concessions with the common folk, privileges they will not wish to lose. My wife-to-be took care of the merchants, who in turn handled the Artisan Quarter’s workshop owners. The newer houses owe their allegiance to me, and know the consequences should they fail to support me in this. In truth, they already pledged it. It was a requirement that I had of them in exchange for the riches they will attain under me.” Greed and glory had ever been reliable tools.

  “And the old ones?” Merisse asked.

  “Only three of them could be a problem, and as I said, I’m ready. In fact, I expect them to strike as soon as the announcement is made. They will be … examples.”

  “Bold words and perhaps a bit vain if you are not worried. You would be facing men strong enough to be Blades. Hemene the Savage thought like you before he failed and sparked the exact war you hope to avoid.”

  “Stronger than Blades,” Ainslen said. Eyebrows rose at that last. “And Hemene was mad. It is an insult to compare us. All I ask is that the Elder Ten be the ones to declare the break in tradition, to proclaim it as the Dominion’s will.”

  “Suppose you fail?” Merisse appeared thoughtful. “Suppose they defeat you.”

  Ainslen showed his teeth in a smile that did not meet his eyes. “Then they will already be weak, and the Order will get what it wants anyway: to rule and enforce the Word where it wishes. After all, the abundance of wisemen in the city was not just for my benefit.”

  Those words left them stunned. The king sat back to let them chatter amongst themselves. But they recognized now that he was no fool. The Order’s followers might be wisemen, but he knew a formidable army when he saw one. Even before they announced their agreement he was smiling inwardly.

  Early the next morning, Ainslen made his way down to Delisar’s cell. He’d given much thought to this step. Ever since he watched Fiorenta, Hagarath, and Shenen gorge on the Dracodar remains, he had wondered exactly how this would play out. He’d felt a measure of exhilaration, fascination, and disgust as the counts had acted more like savages than men.

  The sight had conjured those old stories of Dracodar stealing children, mindbending the helpless, all for their cookpots. The slight loathing was all that mattered. If people saw him kill Delisar, and then partake of him in such a horrific fashion, it would change the good standing he’d earned of late. Some already called him a monster. Imagine what they would say after the deed. More importantly, what would Terestere think? Besides, only a chosen few knew Delisar’s secret. It had to remain that way.

  He left Curate Selentus outside and ordered the eight Blades to depart. Delisar stood in the middle of the room, his filth appalling, hands and legs splayed apart, pulled in the directions of the four chains, and yet the Dracodar may as well have been sitting upon a throne.

  “If the talk I’ve heard from your guards proves true, then today is the day,” Delisar said.

  “Yes, yes, it is.” Ainslen licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He’d dreamed of this moment, and now it
was here. His heart raced and a thrill rushed through him like the moment before a battle, a nervous, yet excited anticipation.

  “Then you will have to take me in my true form.” With those words, Delisar’s soul gushed forth.

  Ainslen shied back although he knew the restraints would hold. Seligula had demonstrated with one of his Kargoshi. Still, the sheer force that licked out from Delisar was to the Soulbreaker’s power as a bonfire was to a candle. And this while the Consortium leader could barely call upon his soul. The thought of the power he might wield brought sweat to the king’s brow.

  The Dracodar’s skin split, and then peeled away. Beneath was a hint of gold. As the skin dropped to the stone floor, Ainslen could only gape. Intricate scales covered Delisar, ending at his neck, ankles, and wrists where the manacles seemed to suck at him. There the scales died, his skin brown and withered where the restraints touched. His hands and feet were normal, so was his face, but Ainslen still relived the hundreds of artist’s renditions of the Dracodar. The one he pictured now was a face much like a human, covered in scales, a mouth with fangs, and hands and feet tipped with claws.

  “You claim to have done much research on my people, then you should know that only one thing could wound me in this form,” Delisar said, gaze unflinching.

  Ainslen stepped in close. “Yes, I do.” The king produced a sword he’d acquired from one of his archaeological digs. “Dracodarian-forged steel, the metal fused with the scales of the fallen.” He drove the sword into Delisar’s side.

  By the time he called for Selentus, the king was drunk with the soul craze. But this was unlike the one he remembered in the Smear. His skin prickled; he could feel every hair, every grain of sand in the stone beneath his feet; the fetid stench of the room was overpowering. At the same time it was like he floated on air. He glowed without summoning sintu. Energy roared through him, tiny blazes, each a part of the cycles, flowing within his soul, adding to one massive fount.

  The power was such he thought it comparable only to that which the Gods might wield. Boundless. He smiled. He was ready. Years of stealing soul had made him so. As he strode from the room he threw his head back and laughed.