The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Stomir took one step forward. He held out the velvet cloth like some precious offering. His smile was surely meant to be reassuring, but in his confusion Winslow couldn’t calm his fear.

  “As has been decreed by those who protect us,” Stomir shouted, “and with my blessing and judgment as Grand Marshal, I approve the choice of our guardians, and declare this young man to be, King Weilondran, Ruler of Kheridisia, Bearer of the Crown of Souls.” He removed the cloth, unveiling a glittering crown. Ten large gems encircled it, each one shaped in the ancient symbols for the Dominion’s Gods and Goddesses.

  Stunned, Winslow could only stare, open-mouthed. This had to be a dream. None of it made sense. A king? It was absurd. Soon he would wake and all would be well again.

  Stomir covered the remaining distance in two strides and leaned forward to place the crown on Winslow’s head and whispered in his ear. “So begins the final ploy of your mother’s scheme to see the Dracodar ascend. I know it’s shocking but all will be explained after the ceremony.” He stepped away and got down on one knee. “Hail, King Weilondran.”

  And so followed a procession of Kheridisian and Farish Isle commanders, lords, and ladies, all paying homage to Winslow’s coronation. Lost in a jumble of conflicting emotions, Winslow felt as if he were watching his life unfold instead of living it. The crown itself didn’t feel real despite its weight atop his head. He whispered the words King Weilondran to himself several times.

  Later that evening, as they prepared for a feast, he found time to speak with Stomir and the First-Born. They once again gathered in the meeting hut, this time with Winslow at the head of the table.

  “What is the meaning of all this? How is it possible?” He looked from one leader to the next.

  “Over a millennium of planning made it possible,” answered Lo-Janim. “When your mother made her pact with the souls of the Eternals who reside in the forest, this land became hers. They bestowed the Crown of Souls to her. In order to survive here, the natives had to pay homage. She allowed them to govern themselves, to have their own lives, for she needed them both as protection and to integrate us into the human societies. We help give them a king who is fair and just, a king selected by the Gods themselves as has been written in the holy word passed down by Mother. This is their custom as much as it is ours.”

  “How can they just accept your choice?” Although he asked the question, Winslow understood the power of things ingrained since birth, passed down from generation to generation. To be Kasinian was to live within the constraints of custom.

  “For most of them, it’s simply the way things have always been,” Stomir said. “For others, the ones old enough to remember, acceptance is a matter of benefits. Because of us, and the queen’s sacrifice, no one has ever truly conquered Kheridisia. We’ve lost wars, sometimes on purpose, sometimes because the foe was stronger, but as a whole the kingdom hasn’t fallen. It has prospered.

  “Throw in tales of the oppression suffered by the rest of the Empire, the Blight, the Thousand Year War, the Culling, slavery in Thelusia, the Day of Accolades, the brutality of Far’an Senjin, tyranny from kings dating as far back as Hemene the Savage, and any sane person might be willing to take the stability offered within the cities here than to venture into the Empire.

  “A time existed when only the fringes of this land were inhabitable. Your mother changed that. The first people to venture deep into the Treskelin were Dracodar who escaped the Culling. Later on came the dregs, the half-breeds like the Philodar, who fled the Day of Accolades. Due to their bloodlines, the forest protected them. Without that protection, they would be dead, or worse, used as fodder for breeding nobles strong in soul.”

  Winslow could picture it, the Culling and the years after. Little by little, dregs fled Kasandar, most of them half-breeds. Few became many, and once they discovered a place safe from the Empire’s bounty hunters, there they remained to build their own country. “What happened to the old king, Lomas?”

  “He died some time ago,” Stomir said. “As Grand Marshal I assumed his place until a new king could be chosen. Of course, Ainslen doesn’t know this. He thought he along with Lomas were the architects of a plot to secure great amounts of soul to facilitate Jemare’s defeat and to finally pry the secrets from Kheridisia. Dracodar remains helped to convince him.”

  “Why the charade?”

  “He and Jemare had to pay for his crimes, for the murder of thousands of Kheridisians and Dracodarkind during the Red Swamps.”

  “Was that one of the wars you chose to lose?”

  “No. Jemare and the others were stronger than we expected, and our leaders at the time too complacent and naïve to understand the perils they faced, the treachery Jemare and Ainslen would employ, the numbers they would bring. Your mother thought she had seen a chance to join us with the humans. She has never forgiven herself. And worst of all, the forest hadn’t risen to defend us in the Lower Treskelin as it did in the past. To this day, no one has an explanation.”

  “So what now? What do I do? I know nothing of being a king.”

  “You’ll learn, in the same way you learned of Kheridisia and its customs,” Stomir said. “You’ll bridge the gap between our world and theirs. As for what’s next: we follow the plan. We finish your training as soon as possible and then we strike.”

  Winslow breathed a bit easier, but not by much. At least there would be time to become somewhat acclimated to this change, even if it was short.

  A young Dracodar warrior stepped into the hut. A Ganhi Winslow recognized from the hunt. Hak-Danin stood with his head bowed.

  “What is it?” Lo-Janim asked.

  “His brother is here, along with several of the Blighted Ones,” Hak-Danin said.

  Hissing and snarling, the tribe leaders leaped to their feet and rushed toward the door.

  “What’s wrong?” Winslow shouted above the din, any joy he felt at the mention of Keedar a fleeting thing in the face of their reactions.

  Stomir stopped at the door and turned to Winslow. “Their presence means there’s no more time. We ride to war.”

  Winslow opened and closed his mouth. After a moment to gather his thoughts, he hurried after them. Amid the commotion outside, someone grabbed his arm.

  Kir-Tashin’s eyes were red. Tears streamed down her face. “Kel-Nasim is gone. The Longing took him.” She burst into sobs.

  Even as grief welled up in his chest, Winslow folded her into his arms. He whispered promises to send an expedition for their friend, to be the first to succeed where everyone else had failed. But down inside he knew Kel-Nasim was well and truly lost.

  O rders

  D umbfounded, Keedar stared at the crown atop Winslow’s head. Crafted of silver metal, it had ten evenly spaced gems circling it, each carved in the symbol for a deity of the Dominion. “You’re King Weilondran?” He shook his head, the concept too foreign to truly grasp, as was his brother’s incredible tale.

  “Apparently.” Winslow grinned, but a hint of sadness dulled his eyes. “At first I thought it was a guiser’s show, one big jest, but it’s real.” He touched the crown. “They call it the Crown of Souls.”

  Keedar raised an eyebrow. “Is it like the Soul Throne? Made from Dracodar remains and able to impart its power?”

  “No, thankfully, it feels as if it’s just a crown.”

  They sat beside each other in a spacious hut that smelled of Dracodar musk, sweat, oil, and leather. The area around them was awash with Dracodar captains, generals, and tribe leaders, strategizing for an exodus and the war. There were more of the gold, silver, and bronze-scaled peoples than Keedar had seen in his life. His people. Although he acknowledged he was a half-breed, something stirred in him, a sense of pride to be in the presence of so many Dracodarkind.

  Among them were several Kheridisian commanders, including Stomir, as well as a few swarthy, tattooed Farish Islanders in lida hide cloaks. Martel was there also, relaying what he’d seen of the Farlander armies, and pointing to areas o
n the map. Keedar shook his head. Even Martel hadn’t been who he’d seemed. He was a prince of some kind among the Farish Islanders, a warrior and seafarer of much renown.

  “You have the look of it.” Keedar took in his brother’s stern features. “And you’re probably the most qualified of anyone I know, having been raised as a count’s son and all. Include Ainslen’s declaration, making you the heir to the Kasinian Empire, and it all fits.”

  “He’ll probably shit himself when next we meet,” Winslow said. They chuckled.

  “The name is terrible, though.” Keedar chortled and gave a slight shake of his head. “Weilondran? Couldn’t they have chosen something better? More kingly?”

  “I wish. Stomir said it’s the name I was born with, but I much rather my own. Winslow is … me, and helps me remember who I am. So, to my friends that’s who I’ll be. To everyone else I can be this Weilondran.”

  “Fair enough. I don’t think I could call you Weilondran with a straight face anyway.”

  “I don’t blame you. I see you seem to have also become a leader.” Winslow nodded toward Eng, Chey, and Tres, who were never far from Keedar’s side. Most Dracodarians regarded the Brothers with fear or awe.

  “Perhaps. They do as I ask, not as I command. But they’re still a mystery. Their former master, Envald, was the one who helped Thar the day we found him wounded.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Who? Envald? He went to do battle with the Farlander ruler, Vasys Balbas, before ordering us here.” Keedar recalled Envald’s instructions. “Have you seen Mother since you’ve been here?”

  “No. The one time she did visit, she met the First-Born somewhere in the Treskelin. I wish I could have been there. How’s Uncle Thar?”

  “He was well when last I saw him. He was preparing to welcome the leader of some new Farlander army.” Keedar refused to mention his fears concerning his father. If he didn’t speak of them, then they wouldn’t come true.

  “A new Farlander army?”

  “Yes, they attacked the ones siding with Ainslen.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s something I must tell you about Ainslen’s Farlanders.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Do you recall my old derin leather armor, the gloves and greaves, and the reason I once wore them?”

  A young Aladar female entered the room and passed two small, cylindrical leather containers to an older Dracodar, his golden scales iridescent. The Dracodar removed a rolled paper from each. He read one then the other. His eyes narrowed in consternation, and then he hurried to the group at the map.

  “Yes,” Winslow said. “It was Ainslen who first told me.”

  “Well, the Farlanders have a similar practice.” Keedar paused, uncertain how to say the next bit. Memories of the mines and the workshops came crashing back. He took a breath and forced the words out. “Except they use humans.”

  “What?”

  “They’ve been capturing humans both for harvest and as slaves. The Farlander armor is crafted with human skin. And some of them feed off human soul. I saw the horrors of their practice at one of their mining operations, and again at their workshops in the Bloody Corridor. I still have nightmares of both. I fear they plan to do the same across Mareshna. Not only that, but somehow they’ve converted men and Dracodar into Soulbreakers.”

  Winslow’s face paled. His throat worked as he swallowed in fear. His eyes shifted to the three Blighted Brothers.

  “You’re king now,” Keedar urged. “We passed what warning we could on our way here, but you can command the army to go back, to rescue those in the path of these monsters. We could stop them with the numbers here. At least long enough for Mother’s plans to come to fruition at the Swords.”

  As much as he wanted to rush off to warn his mother as Envald had advised, Keedar couldn’t help but imagine the decimation the Farlanders would leave behind. He constantly envisioned the slaves, the mangled bodies within the kerin mines, the skins hanging along the walls. The recollections made him sick. As did the image of Thar among them.

  “And to help my father if he needs it,” he added with great reluctance.

  “Help Uncle Thar? Why? Didn’t you say he remained behind to welcome these new forces? That they fought against those in support of Ainslen?”

  “I-I just have a bad feeling. And I don’t trust any Farlanders.”

  “Give me a moment.” Winslow left Keedar’s side and approached Stomir and a sinuous, gold-scaled Dracodar with amber eyes. They spoke for a few minutes.

  Stomir signaled to Martel, and soon, Keedar was asked to join them. They headed into another room, away from the chaos of preparation.

  The Dracodar faced Keedar. “I am Lo-Janim, one of the tribe leaders, the First-Born. Martel informed us of the threat and the things you encountered. The best we can do is to send riders to the villages and towns, but there has been no greater protector than the forest. It has withstood any attack and time itself.”

  The words weren’t enough to soothe Keedar. “I know your skills are most likely beyond anything I’ve seen, but they have firesticks and firebreathers, and many of them are like the Blighted Brothers, immune to direct melds. Riders won’t be enough. Neither will the forest.”

  “We have a greater concern,” Lo-Janim said.

  “What could mean more than saving our own and helping Thar?” Keedar turned to Martel, voice rising in desperation. “Tell him. You saw what they did.” His gaze flitted to Winslow. “You’re king now …” He trailed off.

  “I tried.” Martel shook his head. “But there’s more at stake than whatever damage they incur on the way to the Swords. Or Thar’s fate.”

  Keedar opened his mouth to beg.

  “It’s Mother,” Winslow said. “She sent a message, ordering us to the Swords of Humel. Another arrived from Uncle Thar at the same time. He made a similar demand. We leave immediately.”

  Thoughts of the people in the path of the Farlanders fled Keedar’s mind. He thought he’d lost his mother once. He couldn’t suffer through such a loss a second time. The decision to obey the orders left him torn.

  W arriors

  T he need to go to the queen’s aid pulled at Leroi. It was as if some force held him in its grip, a force he didn’t wish to fight against. When he’d think of detouring, perhaps to stop at a town or city, or to return to Kasandar, a little voice told him any such deviation was the wrong choice. Long ago, he’d learned to heed that voice, that instinct. Even without the encouragement from Cardinton, Adelfried, and King Hanlin, he would have pushed on.

  He eyed the former counts, wondering if things would have been different if he’d sided with them in the first place. Cardinton had ever been the smartest of them, predisposed to studying any move repeatedly. Perhaps the habit had seen the man grow the silver that dominated once auburn hair. As Cardinton’s closest friend, Adelfried’s allegiance came as no surprise. Neither of which answered the nagging question of who gave the men their orders. Who was this young Keedar’s father? The little he knew of the boy himself was no more than his origins in the Smear. He’d saved Winslow and Gaston, befriended them even. If the rumors were true. Leroi shook his head, trying to make sense of it all.

  Across the Silk Plain’s vast fields, his ereskar trotted at a pace that would be a horse’s gallop, its feet skimming the ground, the glow of soul around it connected to that of its driver, a female Blade. Four hundred more of the beasts surrounded Leroi, their musky stench filling the air. The baskets hanging from their flanks brimmed with Blades, other soldiers, and supplies. For days they’d run, their speed making everything around them a blur, stopping only to eat and drink. Although the ereskars’ stamina seemed inexhaustible Leroi knew a prolonged break was necessary.

  Each day since fleeing the battle he’d wanted to turn back and head to Kasandar, to see if the city was safe, to help if it wasn’t. He’d sent warning by way of riders and birds, but in his gut he f
elt neither was enough. Although Amalia, Elaina, and Jaelen were well on their way to the Farish Isles, he still had friends and other family in the city. He hoped the army of Soulbreakers led by this Vasys Balbas had continued directly north, or better yet, had been defeated by Envald and his Blighted Brothers. He clung to those hopes, as fleeting as they might be.

  To his right stretched the expanse of the Empire Road, its cobbles teeming with people heading south on foot, horse, byaga, or wagon. Studying them, Leroi frowned. Too many had the disheveled appearance of refugees, of days and nights spent on the road with no rest. Many would cast a furtive glance behind them before trudging on.

  Leroi peered in that direction. Melanil’s pristine spires beckoned in the distance beneath a sky marbled in blue and wispy white. The Chanting City had always been a beacon of safety, a sanctuary blessed of the Dominion, home to the Order. So why were refugees flooding the Empire Road, heading away from those glittering walls and towers, away from the realm’s most protected city outside of Kasandar itself?

  “Signal the others to stop,” Leroi called to the standard-bearer in the basket beside him. The man waved his pennant.

  Around the driver, soul increased for a moment, followed by a drawn out bay from the beast. They slowed and eventually drew to a halt.

  “Sergeant Rashan,” Leroi shouted over the side amid the din of baying and snorting ereskars, “tell the others we take a proper rest here. Give orders to have the animals fed and watered.”

  “Yes, sir.” A moment later the Kasinian had leaped down the twenty feet it took to reach the ground, a quick meld absorbing the impact of his feet. He strode to the nearest ereskar group.

  Leroi removed the strap that held him in place on the bench in the small basket atop the ereskar. He stood, stretched, and sprang from the animal, soaring over the right flank and the basket filled with men and women. Lightening his weight, he glided down to the grassy field. When he landed he set off at a brisk walk toward the refugees.