The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  As with the Berendali she’d encountered, he was tall, fair of hair and complexion. It was his eyes that drew her. Polished amber peered out from a face hewn of stone. That gaze, those eyes, did not leave Clara. Aidah felt as if neither she nor Nerisse existed. A smile twitched at the corner of the High King’s lips, so slight she might have missed it had she not been so focused on him. A feral gleam entered those eyes, a gleam she recognized from her dreams.

  The steel with which she’d molded her spine became a weakness in her legs. Blood roared in her ears. Yeren’s introduction sounded as if they were a hundred miles away, a faint echo in the back of her mind. She found herself squeezing Nerisse and Clara’s hands so tightly that her arm trembled. The world resumed its focus.

  “Countess Aidah Rostlin, Nerisse Rostlin, and Clara Rostlin, I present to you, His Majesty, Lord of the Dragon Gate, Ruler of the Lighted Path, High King Taakertere Hemindel.” Yeren’s voice boomed.

  “The taker,” Nerisse hissed. And she snatched her hand away from Aidah.

  Everything seemed to move agonizingly slow. Even as Aidah opened her mouth to shout, both she and Clara were thrown back by the power that roared out from Nerisse. They both landed on their behinds. From the stone floor Aidah could only watch, horrified.

  Scales sprouted along Nerisse’s face. A massive blade, its length lit with white fire, appeared in her hands. Nerisse’s skin along her arms became shiny, glistening with scales. Roaring, the girl made an impossibly long leap toward the High King.

  “Serensenjiren!” screamed someone.

  “Noooo!” Aidah yelled, one hand flung out toward Nerisse.

  Three of the king’s guard stepped in front of their consort. As one they raised their spears. A wall of luminous blue transparency sprang up between them and Nerisse.

  Nerisse came down, swinging. Her sword slammed into the blue wall with a resounding crash.

  Two of the guards made a punching motion. A fist the size of a man appeared from the wall, conjured from the same material. It smashed into Nerisse, flinging her across the room.

  She smacked into a wall, the impact leaving an indentation of cracks, chips of stone falling around her. She fell to the ground. Slowly, she wobbled to her feet.

  The High King’s guards advanced. A dozen more filed into the room to surround Aidah and Clara. Between them, Aidah saw Nerisse lean on her conjured sword for a moment and wipe blood from her mouth. The other three men had stepped off the dais and advanced toward her.

  “Neri, stop.” Clara’s voice was soft.

  Although too far to hear, Nerisse looked over. The rage that mottled her features bled away. She dropped to the ground on one knee. Her sword vanished.

  L isten for the Thunder

  T he High King ranted in a voice filled with righteous anger. Yeren and his fellow Jehazites were listening, many nodding, and at times offering their own input.

  Fefnir and his wisemen were all in chains. They kneeled in a line beside Aidah and Nerisse. Of Lomin there was no sign. Clara stood before the throne.

  “I’m sorry, Mother, so sorry,” Nerisse sobbed. The Jehazite priests had made her drink some concoction to suppress her soul.

  “Why did you do it,” Aidah hissed. “I warned you.”

  Nerisse sniffled. “I, I couldn’t help myself. It was as if my body didn’t belong to me. I kept seeing the images from my dreams of these priests and the High King taking Clara, and … and … something came over me.”

  A guard prodded Nerisse with his spear and uttered a single word in Berendali. They quieted as the High King continued to rage, his most venomous glares directed toward Nerisse.

  Aidah imagined the discussion, the implications of Nerisse’s actions. She’d believed in her dreams, in what she was shown. Only to be led to this? She shook her head. Is this really to be my end? Did we survive Succession Day, betrayal by my own, and Ainslen’s bounty hunters for death in a strange land? She considered all that she’d prayed for, all that the Gods’ delivered. Or had they delivered it? Had it actually been her perseverance and will to survive that had brought them this far?

  She wanted to offer up a prayer but found that she could not. The will to do so was not in her. By the abyss, for the first time she was truly questioning her faith in the Dominion. All she’d done, and yet she had been led astray. She envisioned Clara as she’d seen her, sickly, on a deathbed, or raving mad, killing the innocent.

  “High King Taakertere has made a decision,” Yeren said, stepping in front of her, his eyes sorrowful.

  Bleakness filled Aidah. She tried to brace herself but found no strength.

  “The king thought to kill you and Nerisse here, but has decided against it. You can thank me for that. Although I do not know why I argued for her.” Yeren glanced at Nerisse. A sliver of hope eased through Aidah. “The blood and bones of the shadowsouled have tainted her. She partook of them. Such things are an abomination.

  “You will both be held in the dungeons until you are taken to the Tomb of Shattered Souls. There, Nerisse will be executed for her attempt to assassinate the High King.” Pain flared in Aidah’s heart. A whimper escaped her lips. Yeren’s expression became piteous. “You will spend the rest of your days as one of the abandoned, doing as they do, collecting the bodies of the dead, clearing the battlefield for the next Chosen Campaign.”

  “And Clara?” Aidah whispered, despair clouding her mind.

  “She is shaisenjis. She will still be given what was promised and treated with the honor of her blessing. The induction will be lessened, her vital points suppressed to alleviate the pressure the soul places on her mind.”

  Aidah could not help a small surge of relief. At least her efforts had accomplished that much.

  “You should be happy for her,” Yeren continued. “You will get to see her pass through the Dragon Gate. Few can claim to have earned such a privilege. The shaisenjis always please the Gods beyond. As such, the Blessed Sky will come, the shadowsouled will remain weak, and our people will rise up to take the world. What could be better than that? Your daughter a gift to the divine and you getting the revenge you said you craved.”

  The irony of the situation was not lost on Aidah. She was receiving what she’d prayed for, but not in the way she’d hoped. She threw her head back and laughed, a mad cackle that echoed through the room.

  ******

  Aidah had long since lost track of time. The metal bars of her cage did nothing to hinder the sun that beat down mercilessly upon her. Wagon wheels had mourned on the Giant’s Road, a grind and screech she could rely upon. Now, that too was done. Her fingers were caked with muck, the skin cracked and peeling. Her lips too. She licked them but could taste nothing, nor did she produce enough spit to matter. A cough rattled her chest, her throat like dry parchment left out in the desert.

  A few feet away, Nerisse sat, trembling hands bringing a bowl of dirty water to her mouth. Their waste stained the bottom of the cage a yellowed-brown. Aidah wondered if she smelled as disgusting as her daughter appeared. The first two weeks she would cringe and wrinkle her nose at the stench, but eventually she lost the ability to notice the odious fumes.

  She did, however, note the pungent odor of death. It choked the air. Masses of carrion birds took to the sky, a black cloud of feathers that rose and fell with raucous dissonance.

  The Tomb of Shattered Souls.

  It was as she saw in her dreams: the bone graveyard, the gigantic ribcages of unknown beasts, the dead, the cast off weapons. The black-robed abandoned went about their grisly duties, collecting the corpses for the pyres.

  Up ahead, the High King’s coach waited beside the road. He stood next to it, majestic in gold, silver, and crimson.

  A procession of Taakertere’s guards created a path through which Clara walked. They had dressed the little girl in a wondrous gown befitting a queen. Aidah wanted to call to her daughter, but she’d long since lost her voice from weeks of incessant sobbing and screaming and from the dry weather.

>   Clara strode toward the Dragon Gate. Horizontal lightning crackled between the pillars in off-white hues. She did not falter or pause.

  Seeing her daughter walk toward them sparked a memory. Tall stone things like tree trunks with lightning all around them, Clara had said. The taker had told Clara that Kesta and Gaston waited on the other side. Was that why she went so readily? Without any resistance? Aidah wanted to cry out, to warn her daughter, but she did not have the voice for it.

  Someone stopped by the cage. Aidah expected a spear butt to the head or gut. Such treatment had become common from the guards. Would they persist in the punishment if they knew it no longer hurt?

  “When you hear the thunder, the cage will open. Go to your daughter. Follow her.”

  “Thunder?” She glanced up. The sky was clear and blue for miles, as it had been for some time. Aidah frowned. Some deep part of her knew that voice. Lomin? She tried to see the person, but against the sun’s glare he was a black silhouette holding a spear.

  “Queen Terestere regrets some of what you’ve gone through. The dreams, most of all, but you had to make the correct choice. Clara had to come here. In the end, you did become my mountain. Remember, listen for the thunder.”

  Aidah tried to sort her thoughts. She fought against the jumble in her mind. You did become my mountain. Listen for the thunder. The words repeated, over and over.

  Somehow she found the energy to draw Nerisse close. “Did you hear him or was that a dream?”

  “I heard.” Nerisse said, voice raspy.

  Aidah’s heartbeat quickened, as did her breathing. The sensation felt strange after not experiencing it for so long. Hope lent her strength.

  Thunder boomed. The sound rolled and echoed. The cage door swung open.

  Again the thunder pealed. And again. And again.

  People screamed. On the road ahead, the line of soldiers erupted into chaos. Many of them dashed toward where the king had been moments ago. She saw no sign of the man.

  King’s guards formed a circle around the coach. The luminous blue wall sprang to life.

  Thunder erupted once more, one burst after another, three times in succession. Ripples appeared in the wall like water struck by pebbles. Blood bloomed on the chests of several king’s guards. The wall faded.

  Ignoring the pandemonium, Aidah suffused herself with one thought. She would get to Clara. She would follow her. Aidah grabbed Nerisse and leaped down from the caged wagon, her legs failing her when she hit the ground.

  They scrambled to their feet. Thunder continued to roll. Soldiers were falling, chests and heads exploding in gory showers. Through the carnage she stumbled toward Clara and the Dragon Gate.

  Clara turned to face them. A smile lit the little girl’s face.

  The thunder kept on. It seemed to change positions, to come from several places.

  A soldier ran toward Nerisse and Aidah, yelling, sword held high. Something punched through his chest. Red stained his clothes. He spun and fell.

  Chest heaving, Aidah willed her feet to move. She would reach Clara. Nothing would stop her.

  Behind Clara, in the Dragon Gate, Aidah thought she saw a form, a person, a woman in blue and silver. The woman’s face changed from that of the statue of Antelen she’d seen in Melanil. It became Terestere’s visage.

  She wanted to laugh. In fact, she did. She let out a long, low croak of a sound like a sick dog’s bark.

  When she reached Clara and took her hand, Aidah had never felt more complete. The crackle of the lightning between the pillars raised Aidah’s hair. A hum emanated from the gate.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Soldiers fought behind her, many of them battling their own. Atop the king’s coach sat Yeren, as if the battle did not churn around him. He offered her a bow.

  A tug on her hand drew Aidah back to the Dragon Gate. Clara stepped forward into the brilliant white lightning. She pulled Aidah and Nerisse with her.

  Iridescent colors shot into the sky from the gate. They swirled and spun in bands and streams. Some coiled around each other.

  Aidah was still staring up in awe when she touched the lightning between the pillars. She felt a slight tingle. And then all feeling disappeared. So did all sight. They were cast into nothingness.

  When Aidah woke, it was to a gentle tap. She opened her eyes. Nerisse was next to her. They were lying in a field.

  Strange creatures flew in the sky, among the clouds. Hundreds of them. They had serpentine necks, leathery wings, and must have been the size of a ship. They spun and dived and rolled and hovered. A few bellowed or roared at each other, plumes of smoke and flame rising from their mouths and nostrils. Their colors ranged from bronze to silver to gold to blue, white, green, and a dozen other variants.

  They reminded her of carvings she’d seen Kesta with a long time ago. Pieces for an ancient game if she remembered correctly. Dragons, she thought.

  She sat up. Down the hill, a vast army spread. Tents of all shapes and sizes littered the field. Some of the flying creatures walked beside men or women, their smaller counterparts reaching no higher than a hooked claw midway up one leg. Scales adorned them all, glinting in the sunlight.

  “Where are we?” Aidah asked.

  “With the Gods like you promised, Mama,” Clara said.

  Aidah turned to her daughter. The creature standing there bore a vague resemblance to Clara. The face was familiar, but much of the similarities ended there. The eyes were like that of a snake. Silver scales covered her skin in its entirety. They were not the half-formed sort she’d seen on Nerisse. These appeared as if they belonged.

  “I told you Auntie Teres would save me, Mama. I told you.”

  “Yes, yes you did.” Aidah made to offer a prayer to the Dominion before she stopped. Had they delivered this to her? Beyond the Pillars of Dissolution or the Dragon Gate was nothing like the religious tomes mentioned. This was not one of the Ten Hells. In comparison this seemed a veritable paradise. And yet her prayers had been answered. She, Nerisse, and Clara were safe. If Yeren’s words on the beliefs of the western kingdoms were true then they would be marching off to fight against Ainslen. So why do I feel that a mortal hand led me here rather than the divine?

  Even as she asked the question she recalled all that had happened since the fateful night at the estate. Lomin’s true name stuck in her head. As well as his words on the subtle prodding used by Mesmers for an effectual mindbend. Right in front me the entire time, and I didn’t see it. Lomin the Suicidal Blade. The name was never about your recklessness was it? Say the right words to the right ears and one could make anything become truth. She shook her head, a wry smile spreading across her face.

  A pang of sorrow eased through her. In the end she’d become the mountain. She hoped he’d survived although she very much doubted it.

  She thought of Terestere and Ainslen then, and began to chuckle. The sound grew to a hearty laugh. She sat back and basked in the sun, watching the gathered Dracodar and dragons, or perhaps they were Gods, and wondered what would come next.

  ******

  Thank you for reading the Quintessence Cycle. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, tell a friend to tell a friend!

  This series, as well as Aegis of the Gods , are all interconnected books in the Cyclic Omniverse, a universe about the rise and fall of Gods and men, where all manner of fantastic creatures and beings live, each pursuing goals of love, survival, and for some, dominion over all.

  As an indie author going it alone, it’s just little old me, so if you feel so inclined drop a rating or review on the ebook site of your choosing. I would do a happy dance!

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  Again, thank you!!!

  C opyright

  The Quintessence Cycle is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © October 2017 Terry C. Simpson All rights reserved

  Mapwork by Terry C. Simpson

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  KINDLE edition

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