The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  He chose a line of three wagons pulled by byagas, the animals’ heads easily the size of a horse’s body. If the armed guards accompanying the wagons were any indication, the people inside weren’t commoners.

  The captain of the escort was a Kasinian with blond hair, posture stiff, lip curled in disdain for the folk around him. The man watched Leroi approach, hard eyes taking in the Lord Marshal’s blue coat with gold scrollwork. When those eyes passed across Leroi’s face, they narrowed. The lips parted for a moment before snapping closed. If it were possible for the captain to sit up straighter, he did so.

  The captain drew in close to the lead wagon’s driver and guard. “Lord Hilmien,” he shouted, “we have company. The important sort.” He held his hand up, made a fist, and led the wagons off the road.

  When the convoy stopped, a sweaty, red-faced Kasinian with hanging jowls and shining pate stuck his head past the lead wagon’s canvas opening. His eyes widened as they took in Leroi. With the help of his men he clambered down. “Praise the Dominion, Lord Marshal, I’m so glad to see you.” Accompanied by the captain, Hilmien waddled across the field to meet Leroi, clothes stained with perspiration. “Moril assured me if we rode this way we would find help.” He gestured to the captain.

  “Help? You left one of the safest cities in the Empire to seek help?”

  Hilmien wrung his hands. “Yes, Lord Marshal. My apologies, I thought you must have heard, and that’s why you’re headed north with an army. The Order fled Melanil, taking their Blades with them. The horns no longer sound; the prayers no longer resonate throughout the Chanting City. All that’s left is the Watch. And they’re barely managing to keep the rabble in check. Riots are inevitable.”

  “Even took the whores,” added Guard Captain Moril. He spat to one side. “How can they think of bedding women in times like these?”

  Leroi tried and failed to picture the Grand Chantry devoid of the thousands of wisemen. Neither could he imagine Melanil without the prayers and the rhythmic drone of its horns. “Where did the Order go?”

  “To the Swords.” Hilmien shrugged.

  “Why?”

  The men peered at each other, and then back to Leroi, their confusion obvious.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Hilmien looked past Leroi and gestured with his chin. “Aren’t you taking those beasts and Blades to the Swords?”

  “Yes, to Danalyn.”

  “Then you don’t know.” Hilmien shook his head. “I was certain someone sent word to Kasandar. Danalyn has fallen, so has Merelyn. The king makes a stand at Despora. It’s the reason so many are fleeing to Kasandar or any city farther south that might provide safety.”

  Leroi rolled the nobleman’s words over in his head, not quite comprehending them. Such defeats weren’t possible. They simply were not. “That can’t be.” The need to reach the queen tugged even harder.

  “I’m afraid it is.” Hilmien gestured to the refugees. “Why else would this rabble leave Melanil? They fear the westerners may raid even before they take the remaining Swords.”

  “If they take the rest of the Swords,” said Moril.

  With a dozen questions swirling through his head, Leroi focused on the reason he’d stopped. “If you continue on this path, there’s a better chance you might find death rather than a safe haven.” He told them all that had happened in Kasandar with the Farlanders, ending with the Soulbreaker army. “I can’t spare any men for the task, but you can. Have your men steer these people away from Kasandar. Force them northeast, to the other side of the Vordon Sea and into Helegan, if necessary.”

  “Right away, Lord Marshal.” Hilmien bowed profusely. “Thank you for the warning. May the Dominion shine on you.”

  “And upon you also.” Leroi waved the nobleman off and turned away. Thoughts of the fallen Swords and the Order’s march to aid the king consumed him. Only in the most extreme circumstances had the wisemen become openly involved in war. Back among his men, he sent out the command to return to the ereskars and prepare to leave. Any complaints for rest could be dealt with later.

  Before he gave the signal to depart he checked on the progress of Lord Hilmien’s efforts. Only to see the man’s wagons trundling down the eastern road with every guard, the drivers flapping the reins and whipping the animals. The other refugees continued south.

  Leroi opened his mouth to order Blades after Hilmien and to assign others to steer the folk away from the Empire Road when he thought better of it. If this Vasys Balbas could do as Envald suggested, turn a melder into a Soulbreaker, then that one convert would be capable of killing hundreds without opposition. The risk of even a single Blade falling into his hands was too great. Besides, there was the issue of the Order’s armies, the urgency behind their exodus, as well as the little voice in the back of his mind telling him to rush to the Swords. With great reluctance he issued the command to continue north.

  He called upon the driver to draw every bit of speed from the ereskar. Her soul swelled, as did that of the animal. They darted forward like the clouds scudding across the sky, the wind whipping by them, the velocity such that Leroi had to close his eyes.

  Evening became night; night greyed into dawn; dawn warmed into noon’s glare. And so, the days went, stopping to rest, drink, and eat only when absolutely necessary. They rode through Kasinia, into the Wetlands of Thelusia, and across the Mud Flats. There, in the noxious murk and muck miles south of Despora, they found the Order’s armies as twilight enflamed the sky.

  Banners fluttered in the wind, most bearing the Star of the Dominion. Among them was another flag, this one a golden crown with wispy blue streams rising from it. Ainslen’s Hand of Soul was nowhere to be seen. Since its early days, the Order spanned generations as well as distance, across kingdoms and lands Leroi had yet to visit, and this gathering was a testament to its reach. Vision magnified, he picked out Kasinians, Thelusians, Marishmen, Darshanese, Farish Islanders, Kheridisians, Heleganese, and others whose origins he could not quite place. Campfires dotted the muddy plains like a million candleflies at night, illuminating the ocean of red and blue clad wisemen and women.

  Horses and byagas by the thousands occupied one area patrolled by a score of guards. Wagons lined yet another. In a third were at least two hundred ereskars. A surprising discovery. There were no tents—a tactic utilized to ensure deployment upon a moment’s notice.

  Leroi called for his forces to stop. He ordered the Blades to disembark, and with the ereskar driver as his sole company he rode toward the immense camp at a walk. Perhaps a hundred feet short of the encampment, he had the driver wait. Leroi leaped from the animal’s back, mud squelching under his feet when he landed. He strode forward to meet a bald-headed initiate.

  “I’m Lord Marshal Leroi Shenen of Kasandar. I seek an audience with the Mother and Father.”

  The initiate dipped his head. “They await you. If you will follow me?”

  Leroi nodded. The wisemen and women paid little heed as he followed his guide, the babble of their many conversations droning on. Some ate, the scent of various foods drifting from cookpots. Others read or prayed.

  The encampment was organized with military precision, separated by rank. This level of discipline among the wisemen was surprising. Their factions were easy to pick out. Initiates were either completely bald or had full heads of hair, and they moved among the others, tending to their needs. Clerics kept the left side of their heads shaven; Deacons did the same on the right. Those two were most prominent in number. Bishops had a thin, bald strip from forehead to nape; Mystics wore white sashes; Curates, black. High Priests and Priestesses were next, defined by their tall hats as well as blue sleeves and belts for males and red for females.

  A frown creased Leroi’s forehead. Not a single person was dressed as a courtesan. He took in the women’s faces. Too many were beautiful, skin dark, smooth, and unblemished. They were undoubtedly Kheridisian, the multitude of nose and earrings easy confirmation. His gaze strayed to one in particular: Fenrella Rint
ell, the Second Mistress of Walker’s Row.

  He stiffened when a bronze-skinned man crossed his path, striding with an exaggerated swagger. The man had to be Caradorii. Leroi tracked the man, who made his way to a gathering of thousands upon thousands of his kind. They mingled with diminutive, milk-skinned Heleganese. Envald had stated the two peoples were helping in the endeavor against the Farlanders, but the numbers were stupefying.

  Before he could formulate his thoughts, Leroi encountered the Elder Ten, eight men and two women, robes adorned with silver scrollwork, gold chains with pendants in the likenesses of the Gods and Goddesses they represented. Standing in front of them was Patriarch Hamada and Matriarch Merisse, the Father and the Mother, garb so plain they could pass for commoners.

  Leroi had seen them once before, at Ainslen’s wedding when they were Elders. They were tan-skinned Kheridisians. Even now, Leroi had to reconcile his thoughts with the idea of any Kheridisian attaining such a high position. This, despite knowing one of the Order’s Precepts determined there was to be no separation of race, sex, class, or kingdom among the Dominion’s chosen. But it was one thing to claim such an altruistic tenet and completely another to live it.

  “Father, Mother.” Leroi bowed from the waist.

  “Lord Marshal Shenen,” Hamada said, nodding, “at last, you have arrived.”

  Leroi thought to question how the Patriarch had come to expect him, but he was as likely to hear a lecture on the mysteries of the Word as he was to receive a straight answer. Such were the ways of those who preferred to veil their knowledge with the cloak of religion. “Well, I’m at a disadvantage, because I didn’t expect to find you here; I only hoped.”

  “Sometimes, hope is all we require,” Matriarch Merisse said.

  “True,” Leroi said, “but in this case we may need a bit more with two Swords of Humel in enemy hands, and a Farlander army made up of Soulbreakers headed this way.” A murmur passed among the Elder Ten. Hamada and Merisse glanced at each other. “The Soulbreakers … they’re—”

  “We know what they are.” Worry creased Hamada’s brow. “Did you see this army for yourself?”

  “Yes, they number in the hundreds of thousands.”

  “Then we must act quickly. Join your forces with ours.” Hamada gestured to the gathering of ereskars and Blades. “We must help defeat the westerners before the Farlanders arrive.”

  “I don’t mean to insult your Holinesses, but an army is only as useful its commanders. I’m the most qualified to lead. I would suggest you merge your Blades, and whichever wisemen you consider battle worthy, with mine. That means none of the whores. And only those Caradorii you can trust.”

  Hamada smiled. “Every person here is a warrior. Every person here is trustworthy. As for leading, the time will come for you to be at the head of this army, but it isn’t now.”

  “Look—”

  “No, you look.” Hamada raised his chin, gaze focused behind Leroi.

  The Lord Marshal turned. His ereskars were moving toward the area that housed the others of their ilk.

  “You may have some Blades loyal only to you among them, but the drivers are wisemen and women. They belong to the Order, as do you now.”

  “That can’t be,” Leroi said, even as he considered that Envald had provided the drivers.

  “It cannot? Do you know of any Blades who are powerful Mesmers? How else do you think they control the ereskars? Tell me, what brought you here, Lord Marshal?”

  “The need to help the queen, to save the Empire, to save my family,” Leroi blurted.

  “Then your purpose is our purpose. However, all you see before you has been meticulously planned by minds more experienced than yours, down to the former counts in your retinue as well as the Marish King. Our aid must come at a precise moment.”

  Leroi listened in disbelief, the strategy laid bare before him. Nothing was as he’d expected.

  A T housand S orrows

  S everal hundred ereskars burst from the Lower Treskelin Forest’s steamy confines onto the plains where the Kerin Pass cut a rocky swath through the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows. Thar and Akari rode upon the lead animals. Blades and Farlanders followed on foot, spreading into battle formations. Carrion birds rose into the sky, dissonant voices protesting the disturbance. Thar scrunched up his nose against death’s fetor.

  Bodies of Blades and slaves were strewn about the ground, some clove almost in half. Others were red and scorched. Some were disfigured, torsos twisted acutely. Yet more showed signs of being gnawed upon by wild animals. Derins and korgan cats slunk away from corpses and slipped into the forest but stayed close enough to watch their meals. Flies gorged, their buzz incessant.

  Even in death, a little soul existed. But not within these corpses.

  Thar scanned the two forts and the ramshackle workshops that hugged the sides of the pass. There was not a hint of movement. Even the flags hung limp.

  “Check the mines.” Akari pointed to the collection of caverns that pockmarked the cliff face.

  Soulbreakers leaped from among the Blades, grey scales rippling. Several Farlanders followed their lead. In a few hops they covered the distance and disappeared into the mines. They returned soon after, the Farlanders shaken by whatever they’d witnessed inside. A Soulbreaker spoke to Akari in the Jiantonese singsong lilt.

  “They found signs of conversion,” Akari said. “Balbas created thousands upon thousands of Soulbreakers here. And as you can see … they fed.”

  “We move on then,” Thar said, nodding to the pass. “There’s no faster way for us but up there.” Once again he felt for the link to Keedar and Winslow. As before, it was gone, long dissipated. He could still tell where he last sensed them, both north, one farther than the other. “But first we burn what’s left here.”

  Not long after, they stood watching the blaze, the heat and smell of burnt flesh and hair rolling over them. Most of the Blades and Farlanders had their heads bowed. Thar said his own prayer to the Dominion. The Winds and Soulbreakers were impassive. As the flames died down he gave the order to depart.

  A gesture from Akari sent scouts scaling the cliffs as if the sheer walls were stairs. Blazers aimed at the tops of the precipices, ready for ambush. Once assured of safety, Thar gave the signal for advance. Happy to be gone from the giant pyre, they sped through the rock-strewn cleft to where the Parmien Forest waited several thousand feet above.

  In the Parmien, broken trees and branches, crushed foliage, animal carcasses, and fetid ereskar droppings led them to a cleared area with several thousand dead campfires. They rode on. Thar paid little heed to the greenery around him, concern for Keedar and Winslow spilling through his head. He prayed they’d made it to the Swords and had gathered enough warriors to stall Balbas’ advance. They exited the forest and followed a path of flattened grass and churned ground across the Parmien Plains toward the distant Shifting Stones Mountains.

  In the distance Thar picked out poles of some sort. A sinking feeling ran through his belly. Magnifying his vision confirmed his dismay. The objects were a score of stakes, each one with a head impaled upon it, facing away from Thar. A cloying terror gripped him. This was the general area in which Keedar’s link had vanished. It was also close to the location he and Envald had picked out as a base for their operations. Too close. Thar made to remove the strap holding himself in place, but Akari’s hand stopped him.

  “Stay here.”

  “One of them might be my son,” Thar snarled. He tried to shake the man’s hand off but failed. With a quick burst of soul, he magnified his strength and tried again. Akari’s grip did not budge. Eyes widening Thar looked down and strained to break the hold. Again, to no avail. Growling, he gathered his soul, prepared to fling open all the cycles.

  “I assure you that none of them is your boy.”

  “How could you know?” Thar’s arm trembled. The power he held begged for release. “You can’t see their faces.”

  “Trust me, I know. Besides, Balbas coul
d have set a trap, one beyond your power to see.”

  Still straining. Thar squinted at the stakes. He saw no telltale signs, no gathering of soul for a trap. He glanced down at Akari’s arm on his. Neither could he discern the power with which Akari so easily held him.

  “Let Yeren and I be the ones to go,” Akari said. “Please.”

  Something existed in Akari’s eyes, a sadness, grief. With a sigh, Thar relaxed.

  Akari released his grip and leaped down from the ereskar even before it drew to a halt. His counterpart, Yeren Tenarel, had done the same. They strode toward the stakes.

  Thar eyed Yeren, still unable to shake his suspicions of the man. Yeren walked with an exaggerated swagger, one arm swinging while he held a long staff in the other. Dressed in sand-colored garb and a long cloak to match, both of rich cut and quality, he was tall, skin like polished bronze. It had taken a day or two to place the familiarity in Yeren’s appearance, but he was undoubtedly Caradorii.

  Thar was still uncertain what to make of the men. Were they truly who they claimed to be? Two of Hazline’s Winds? Demigods? Akari’s grip had been the first time he’d seen either man exhibit their power, and unless they had some cycle as yet unknown to him, he couldn’t discern their strength in soul. If they even wielded soul.

  However, the deference the Farlanders showed to them was telling. It was akin to worship. He’d also questioned Akari on their ride here, and the man’s answers matched and surpassed everything Thar had gleaned from Etien’s Compendium or learned from Elysse. There was also the matter of their appearances. Thar could find no way to explain how men supposedly from worlds beyond Mareshna, could look so much like natives.

  He was considering the question when the two men disappeared. He sat up straight. There was no indication of a meld, but the men were gone. Seconds later they reappeared at the stakes. A murmur of astonishment rippled through the troops.

  Heads bowed, the two Winds stood in front of the central stake, the ground gouged and blackened, the scars synonymous with a clash of soul magic. Ereskars mewled and bayed, mirroring the impatience of the soldiers in the baskets. A breeze carried a hint of death and char. When Akari and Yeren Tenarel turned away, the heads on the stakes burst into flame.