Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (43 page)

After Gelwin and his court departed, the seneschal showed Jaren out by another door and gave him a tour of the palace grounds. The two men wandered elegant corridors between sprawling wings and strolled along airy colonnaded walks that followed the contours of the land. Jaren saw little. He was too busy brooding over his missed chance to ask Gelwin's help with the local tradesmen.

“I’m surprised the king left so soon,” Jaren said when they paused amid a hallway that bridged a rushing waterfall. “We have unfinished business.”

“The rule of Seele makes stern demands of His Majesty’s time,” the seneschal said. “Your only recourse is to seek another audience, which must wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, the royal household is pleased to welcome our benefactor’s servants.”

Intriguing as he found the prospect of dwelling—even briefly—among his own kind, one of the quiet warnings that had served Jaren so well prompted him to decline. “Thanks,” he said, “but I should get back to my ship.”

The Seneschal showed Jaren to Seele's main gate, which strove for harmony with its surroundings as artfully as the rest of the grounds. Jaren passed under an arch formed by the interlaced branches of two trees bearing sweet-smelling flowers and through the wild hedge that walled the grounds. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the sprawling estate had vanished into the contours of the hill.

Waiting for him in the clearing that served as an outer courtyard were two men in brown jackets and low-peaked hats with narrow brims. These were quickly doffed to him and placed back on their owners' heads.

“Captain,” said the nearer of the two. “You came in with a company of His Majesty's lancers, but it's a pair of the king's lowly gamekeepers who'll see you back.”

“I prefer it after all the formality,” Jaren said.

“It's only a two hour walk to your ship,” said the second man. “We stalkers can make pleasant company for that long.”

Jaren and his guides set off through the thick woods blanketing Seele's hill. He soon suspected that the king's lowly gamekeepers were nothing of the kind. After two hours and at least ten miles, they not only proved, but exceeded, his expectations. The stalkers almost made Teg look slow and clumsy. He was sure they could have moved faster had he not slowed them.

When he arrived at the ship, Jaren slumped down on the soft grass to catch his breath while his escorts wished him good day and promptly melted into the woods. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when Nakvin approached him. The wind tousled her raven hair and rippled her crimson robe.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Not quite what I expected,” said Jaren, still slightly winded.

“What's it like to be with your own kind?”

Jaren paused. He hadn’t stopped to let the experience sink in. Now that he'd been asked, he took his time formulating a response. “It’s like going back to a childhood home,” he said with a hint of sadness.

Nakvin smiled wryly. “I wouldn't know.”

“You will,” Jaren said as he rose and brushed off his grey pants. A Mithgar navy uniform, stripped of all insignia but the mission patch, had been the most formal attire available.

“Sorry they didn't wait till you got back. We couldn't stop them short of violence.”

Jaren paused and shot the Steersman a confused look. “
Who
couldn't you stop?”

“The workmen,” Nakvin said, arching an eyebrow. “I don't know what you said to Gelwin, but it worked.”

“I didn't say anything. We never got past the small talk.”

Nakvin shrugged. “I just know that an army of workers showed up a few hours ago. If they can get us up and running, I think we should pay Despenser another visit. He might know more about Sulaiman’s attack on Elena.”

The captain nodded; then took his senior pilot by the arm and led her into a small stand of trees. He scanned the woods despite knowing the futility of his precautions. The gamekeepers had keen ears and could easily evade his eyes.

“You're getting that paranoid look again,” Nakvin said. “I hope there's no reason for it.”

“Those soldiers knew I was aboard,” said Jaren. “They knew my
name
. When I talked to Gelwin and his people, they showed knowledge of our job that I never told anyone.”

Nakvin looked askance at Jaren. “Not even Eldrid?”

“I didn't tell her about the cargo or the baal's deal,” he said, “but the royal chamberlain said that servants of Mephistophilis are always welcome.”

“Teg is wearing the baal's colors,” Nakvin said. “The lancers saw him. One of them could have passed word up the chain.”

Jaren shook his head. “The seneschal met me at the gate, and none of the soldiers talked to him.”

“What do you think it means?”

“That we were expected.”

“And the shipwrights turning up unannounced,” Nakvin said. “What does
that
mean?”

Jaren fell silent. His mind raced to connect the strange series of events, but no pattern emerged. “I don't know,” he said at last.

“Do you have unconfirmed suspicions or no idea at all?” Nakvin asked.

“Stay out of my head!” Jaren snapped.

Nakvin started. She took a half step back, wearing a wounded frown. “I didn't have to go in,” she said softly. “I can't without your permission. I wouldn't if I could. You know that.”

Jaren rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I'm sorry. Those stones are like weights around my neck. I should know better than to ask questions about a shipment.”

Nakvin's expression clouded. “Eldrid told you something last night, didn't she?”

“It's better not to ask the client's business,” said Jaren, “especially
this
client.”

Nakvin folded her arms. “I think it's better to ask
because
of who hired us,” she said.

“If you want to go home,” said Jaren, “The only way back is to finish this job.”

“You can trust these Gen or not,” Nakvin said, “but don't think for a minute that you can trust Mephistophilis. Look at Teg! That happened within the first five minutes of this job. When are you going to admit you're out of your depth?”

“Right after they put me in the ground,” Jaren growled as he stormed away.

Vaun stepped into one pool of shadows in the hall outside the crew quarters and emerged from another inside Elena’s temporary lodgings. He blamed the steersmen for lowering him to invading his sister’s room like a common housebreaker—a profession he’d left long ago.

The girl lay motionless in the dark. She seemed to be sleeping, but it was difficult to tell with their kind. No matter. His business was pressing enough to warrant disturbing her.

“My sister,” he said, “are you awake?”

Elena regarded Vaun through one half-raised eyelid. “Yes.”

“Pardon my intrusion,” said Vaun, “but a proper discussion between us is long overdue.”

The girl said nothing but opened both of her eyes.

“When last we spoke,” Vaun continued, “you mentioned that your soul is a composite formed from the fragments of others, including mine.”

Elena sat up in bed and faced him. “And you want it back.”

Vaun paused before asking, “Can such a thing be done?”

“You've spent most of your life searching in the hope that it can.”

“Will you vindicate that hope?” the necromancer asked.

Elena scrutinized a point in space above and behind him. “Your silver cord runs through the Void; makes it part of you. Filling the rift would perfect the bond.”

“Anything is better than
this
!” Vaun cried, clutching his shirt as if to rend it.

“I don't think I can trust you.”

Vaun moved to Elena's side. He took her hand in his, but she looked away. “What vow would you have me swear?” he pleaded. “What pledge of good faith must I make to regain what was stolen from me?”

Elena subjected him to the full intensity of her gaze. “Teach Deim your art.”

“Initiate him into the Way of Teth?” asked Vaun.

The girl made no reply.

“Hear me well,” Vaun said. “The necromancer's art is no idle pastime for the prurient or the foolish. The truths taught to apprentices are apt to crush unfit minds.”

“He wants to help me.”

“If I agree to this bargain, do you vow to return what was lost to me?” Vaun asked.

“I promise.”

Longing and uncertainty warred in Vaun’s unbeating heart. “I would know why you wish me to apprentice Cursorunda,” he said.

Anxiety gleamed in Elena’s rose quartz irises. “He's stirring!”

Hugging herself tightly, the young woman faded like a ghost.

Before Vaun could speak the question hanging on his lips, he experienced a sudden moment of disorientation. When the vertigo passed, he found himself standing out in the hall.

My life's cord passes through the Void?
the necromancer mused.
And now I know the domain through which yours runs, my sister.

A cold wind blew across the Fourth Circle. It descended from the mountains and whipped through the desert; its chill untouched by the heat. A figure in black traveled with the wind—though which of them brought the other was open to debate. The figure walked in the form of a man in a black suit. Dark lenses were set over his face, but whether or not they covered eyes was as uncertain as the origin of the wind.

Entrusting the
Exodus
to Stochman had been a mistake—Fallon knew that now—as had leaving to harry Tyrmagan’s scouts. His solitary journey gave him time to reflect on those mistakes, and others.

The kost’s errand had taken him close to the Third Circle gate, the farthest he'd yet ventured from the ship. He’d returned to find the vessel gone. Sure that his troubles would join arms as woes often did, he'd followed the demons. Unknown interference blocked Teth’s flow, forcing him to proceed on foot. He’d left the mountains just in time to witness the pirates' intervention at the Freehold, but the
Exodus
had sped off to the east before he could reach it.

The kost rued his ensnarement by petty human prigs, but permanent escape from death had its price, including the conditions that had allowed the Shadow Caste to bind him. Fallon had little interest in the game he'd been made to play. Given the choice, he’d rather see the Eighth baal succeed and his current masters’ treachery fail; but such choices were now denied him.

Fallon knew the black ship's course, and as the light faded at his back, he reached the rocky shore and its conical tower. Without pausing, he stepped from bank to river, the reeking water freezing solid beneath his feet. Walking on a sheet of ice that advanced before him, the kost forged ahead.

His fourth time across the horizon, Fallon perceived a small boat approaching from the east. As it drew closer, he saw its pilot: an ancient man in rust-colored robes. The boatman held a long thin pole in his right hand, and the left he extended in warning.

“Halt!” the grizzled figure said. “A cherished object is the price of crossing.”

Fallon removed his dark glasses and tossed them to the boatman without slowing. Karun studied the sunglasses in bewilderment as Fallon walked past his ferry.

The kost hadn’t gone a hundred feet before the water around the skiff began to churn. The river held secrets unknown even to the ferryman, and Karun screamed as rising corpses groped their way aboard to swarm over him.

Night fell and the hunter pressed on, walking across the frozen waves.