Soulbreaker (9 page)

“Sensible but costly. Be warned. You are to do nothing to save this man. If he is indeed a Dracodar, allow Ainslen to have his way.”

“You would let the king have even more power?”

“He will need it.”

Although she agreed, she mulled over the idea of freeing Delisar. She even allowed herself a dreamy moment where he was king. As quick as she imagined it, she discarded the dream. Too many would rebel against it, as they would against a woman on the throne. Maneuvers in the shadows were best. She would rule even if the masses were oblivious to it, even if it meant purging whatever she felt for Delisar from her mind.

“Why do you think I’d agree to what you suggest?” she asked finally. “I could simply follow the former Countess Rostlin.”

“You are assuming I would give you a writ of passage.”

“I’m a queen. That has far more value.”

“Were a queen,” he said, smiling cruelly. “Who is to say I would even allow you to leave here? I could hold you until Ainslen’s hunters arrive, turn you over to them, and not influence whatever decision he might make.”

The queen smirked. It was good to know where the real power lay. “You could do all those things, and you will, but for one. You
will
let the king know exactly how useful I could be.”

Corgansetti was peering at her, eyes narrowed. “What makes you so certain?”

“You said it yourself, you need me. The Farlanders are a threat, yes, but there is one more imminent, closer to home, an enemy whose armies will pass here first if they win out.” Terestere smiled sweetly in response to the Patriarch’s smoldering gaze. “You were relying on the combined might of the Empire’s Blades and the Farlanders to lead a surprise invasion into the west, but something has changed. The Berendali and their allies are already marching on us.” His silence was all she needed as confirmation. “So, you need the Empire whole sooner than later. However, there’s still the issue of the Farlanders. What happens when they’re denied that which they seek?”

“By the time the Order is finished with them, they will be carrying the Word to their lands.” The glint in the Patriarch’s eye prickled her skin.

She knew the effect of words all too well. People thought of themselves as dangerous, but they were mere tools. Words. Words were the true weapons. One could carve out entire kingdoms with the right ones, melt the iciest hearts, and sway the most stubborn minds. One could even convince a man to kill a king.

Resisting the urge to smile again, she listened as Patriarch Corgansetti laid out his plans. Not since the Thousand Year War had one kingdom controlled Mareshna in its entirety. Those times were lost in the annals of history, much of what was known today mere speculation, the Dracodar blamed for bringing forth the plague that robbed man of his knowledge, and brought a new era, an era where man had assumed his rightful place.

The Order thought to maneuver her like a piece on a game board to acquire its goal. She would let them, for now. Their moves were her moves, their assets her assets. With each shift they revealed more of themselves, parts she could use, for to know a person thoroughly was to discover exactly what they desired the most. In knowledge lay the ultimate power. From them she would take more than they did from her.

6

L
essons in Lethality

F
or what felt like the thousandth time, Keedar stood before the Treskelin Forest, inhaling its rich scents while he peered in the direction his brother had gone. A storm brewed overhead, promising a deluge that would flood the forest. As if to remind him, lightning radiated among the clouds, and thunder rumbled its retort. In Kasinia, the wisemen would be chanting their prayers to the Grey God, begging Keneshin for mercy. Keedar could almost see himself doing the same to ensure his brother’s safe return, but in his experience, the Gods did not answer men,
if
they even existed.

A month had passed since Winslow’s test began, a month of worry, of waking late at night from nightmares of his brother’s suffering.
He hated the wait, hated not knowing his brother’s condition. Keshka seemed unconcerned, going about his daily routine of training Keedar before poring over old tomes in the cottage. After his own time in the woods’ frozen hollow, Keedar couldn’t help the dread that crawled in his belly. He’d barely survived.

How are you holding up, Wins? Did you remember to make a hole for air?
Are you hearing the things I did? Are your darkest thoughts and deeds haunting you?

Keedar tried to shake off the images in his head, the voices, the things that had visited the hollow. Delisar had been there, lamenting his capture, begging for help, often screaming as Ainslen devoured his soul. Other times it was his mother, Elysse, cackling madly as flames consumed her, scales showing through charred flesh. Gaston came and went as he often did in Keedar’s nightmares, his eye socket a mass of pulpy flesh where the knife had pierced it. Rose and Raishaar came also, blaming him for their deaths at Shaz’s hands. Shaz would come, eye drooping, face scarred, laughing as he kicked Keedar in the ribs. Eventually he could take no more. Squeezing his eyes tight he shook the thoughts off before they consumed him.

“Shouldn’t we look for him?” he called out.

“Why?” On the porch, Keshka closed his book and leaned back in his chair. “He has only been gone a month. You survived for two before returning. A test can last as long as three.”

Keedar grimaced at the idea of surviving that long. Two months had been torture enough, the last week like the tales of Purgatory, filled with voices, horrific visions, and a fight, a fight with a beast he felt more than he saw. He still couldn’t recall its appearance but was certain it had claws.
What else could have left those gouges on my arms and back?
He trembled with the memory of that battle, the craving to kill it had brought out of him. He swallowed at the thought of his brother facing such a monster. “What if more bounty hunters appear, but this time with us as targets?”

“A few of them might be out there, but as I said to your brother, I doubt they will venture this far into the Treskelin, and if they attempted to, they would die long before they reached the clearing. Just be patient.”

His father’s unconcern needled at Keedar. “What if we wait and he doesn’t return?”

“Then he belongs to the forest.”

“Are you this callous with the lives of all your children?” Keedar asked.

“All of the others but you two are grown. They’re fathers, mothers, grandfathers, grandmothers … in their youth I worried for them as much as I do for you. If I wasn’t concerned I would have let you live with me all these years.”

Keedar ground his jaw. “You say this with one breath, but in the next it seems as if you would let the forest take Winslow without a care in the world.”

“He knew the risks, son. Once he accepted the challenge, it was out of our hands. The forest won’t allow us to interfere.”

“How could it stop us?”

“The same way it stops the cold, the same way it can make the clearing for the Fast appear where it wills.”

Keedar stared off into the forest, the clamor of its denizens a distant thing at its outskirts, closer to Kasinia. Bears bellowed, wolves howled, and a korgan cat added its snarling growl, all joining bird twitters and the cries of various other animals. The nimbus of the Treskelin’s ancient white ash trees spanned as far as he could see. “So we have to wait? Couldn’t you undo the forest’s hold?”

“I’m strong, not all powerful.” Irritation colored Keshka’s tone as he returned to his book.

Keedar stopped himself from pleading. It wouldn’t change the old man’s mind. That much had become clear about Keshka. He was immovable on what he thought to be the correct decision. Keshka’s stubborn trait reminded him of Delisar. The thought sparked memories of Delisar’s honey-colored hair and eyebrows so thick they touched. A far cry from Keshka with his snowy hair and black-streaked beard. Keedar had no reason to doubt the man he once called uncle, but he couldn’t help his attachment to Delisar. The situation seemed surreal, a story from a guiser’s tale.

When he’d asked after Keshka’s decision to place him in Delisar’s care, the old man would say the life he led was one fraught with danger, one where he was constantly traveling, that a child’s wellbeing was a risk he could not afford. Although Keedar understood, the reason wasn’t enough for him. Something inside him wanted more.

The spiral of thoughts brought him to their mother, Elysse the Temptress, an assassin, wanted by the nobility for many a crime, the most heinous among them the slaying of Prince Joaquin, King Jemare’s son. No surprise their home had been attacked on the Night of Blades.
Why didn’t you help?
He eyed Keshka.
You could’ve defeated your enemies. Instead, Mother died at the hands of Jemare and Ainslen.
Keedar held his head back, staring into the sky’s murk.

“Sometimes sacrifice is necessary for the greater good,” Keshka said.

Keedar let out a slow breath, chest trembling as memories rushed him. He could feel and see Delisar on the night the King’s Blades captured him, the blood soaking his clothes, the tears they’d shared in the closet of their old home, their last hug. Mother’s demise superimposed itself over that image in a night filled with swords, her laughter, and her golden scales. In it all he saw Ainslen’s face and wanted to pummel it bloody with his bare fists.

Moments like this, which were too common of late, brought him back to Delisar and Keshka’s lie.
Well, not lie but a denial of truth.
His lips curled at the thought of Keshka’s words to explain it all away. For the past two years Keedar believed his abilities to be the natural product of soul, simple applications of the cycles. Not once did he suspect he’d already possessed enough control to be considered a melder.
Why did you two keep the truth from me?

He couldn’t help but to think of the times he’d watched helplessly on the Day of Accolades as the wisemen took children, or parents gave up their babies out of despair, hoping to avoid the murders, rapes, robbery, the squalor of the Smear’s streets. Many of those children were now King’s Blades, their parents nothing more than foggy recollections, stripped away and replaced with servitude to the Kasinian Empire.
I might have been able to help some of them.

Perhaps his skill would’ve granted a chance to save Delisar, opportunities to help more of the Smear’s folk during Succession Day, given him the ability to fight Shaz and the others when they’d attacked Raishaar or after Shaz killed Rose. He trembled from the burden of losing so much when he might have made a difference. Since passing the Fast of Madness he vowed that none of it would happen again. He would not stand idly by while another person he cared for suffered. “What if I go after him?”

“You could try, but you wouldn’t get very far. Besides, how would you feel if I intervened in your trial?”

Keedar gave the question some thought. “Angry, annoyed, maybe I’d think I hadn’t truly completed it. But that’s me. Winslow lacks my experience with soul magic.”

“So you would take away his sense of accomplishment?” Keshka closed his book again.

“I don’t mean to, but—”

“You worry for him, which is admirable. However, some things a man must do by himself. Think of it as you would a babe. Coddle the babe for too long and you risk crippling him. Sooner or later the child must be allowed to take those first steps on his own, to fall on his face, gain those bruises. They are signs of advancement to be worn with pride, like the scars you bear from years running the Parmien and living within the Smear, the scars you earned during
your
test.”

Keedar inadvertently touched the area of his shirt that hid his knife scars. He thought of the night he’d left his best friend, Raishaar, to die. Frustrated, he continued on doggedly. “So why did you and Delisar coddle me?”

“We saved you from yourself and from Ainslen. You weren’t ready.”

“Would you stop me if I helped Winslow anyway?”

A smile flitted across Keshka’s tanned face. “I wouldn’t raise a hand; I wouldn’t need to.” The old man pointed toward the Treskelin Forest. “They won’t allow anyone to interfere.”

Keedar peered into the woods. He saw nothing but massive trunks, snaking roots, leaves, and brooding shadows. The uneasy sense that something or someone was there niggled at him, fingers inching down the back of his neck, making the hair on his arms stand on end. He shook his head. “There’s no one there. You mention these Wild Kheridisians, and yet I’ve not seen hide nor hair of them.”

“Can you see the air? The wind? When a Mesmer bends your mind can you see the soul he used to do it?” Keshka asked, chuckling. “No? But it still exists. Because you lack the ability to see a thing doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

Keedar groaned. “Now you sound like one of the wisemen, preaching about the Dominion.” Despite his doubts he fingered one of his daggers and kept his attention on the forest. Silence-filled moments passed before the sense of unease dissipated.

“The Gods are another story entirely, but my words apply to them and faith as well,” Keshka said. “Regardless of all that, who do you think followed you throughout your test, tried to hinder your passage?”

Keedar frowned. The things that chased him had been more like shadows than men. “I thought those were the shadowbearers.”

“Ah,” Keshka said, “the old tales of people who eat each other, folks driven mad by expending too much soul while melding, or for ingesting more soul than they could handle. What else did they do again?” The old man’s brow furrowed, and then he added, “Yes, I remember now … they’ve committed the worst crimes, raped and murdered and more besides.” He looked upon Keedar, smirking. “Sometimes a tale is just a tale.”

“So you’re saying they don’t exist?”

“I am saying they’re one and the same, that the stories have been wildly exaggerated. Does the name Wild Kheridisian inspire any true fear when you first hear it if you didn’t know the history? No, but the other name does. How else could the Kheridisians keep people away from their forests? Killing them indiscriminately would have drawn Kasinia’s ire as it has in the past.” Keshka stood. His expression softened. “This isn’t just about your brother, is it? What else troubles you?”

“Why did you and Delisar keep knowledge of my melding from me?” Keedar asked before he could stop himself.

“It was necessary.”

“Why?” Keedar refrained from saying more lest the coals of his emotions grew to a flame.
Words can cost a man his head as surely as any blade.
He had to grit his teeth against the spontaneous recollection of Delisar’s teachings.

“We kept it from you because King Cardiff, like Winslow, has the ability to tell lie from truth. You were brought to him as a simple dreg, one that helped the boys. If he discovered that you were aware of your melding, he would have taken you. The best lies are the ones you make yourself believe.” Keshka paused. “You blame yourself for Delisar’s fate, I can see it in your eyes, can tell by the way you’ve taken to training with such … vigor. Despite what you think, you wouldn’t have been much help in the battle. You would have perished, like countless others. As you are now it would take decades of practice to match an experienced Blade.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Would you rather be here or in the dungeons?”

“Here,” he replied glumly.

“Good. Both of you have come a long way in a short time, but you lack lessons in which the Blade’s are well-versed. Lessons in lethality. Everything about you is a weapon, can be used to kill … the smallest stone, a quill, a leaf, the very air.” Keshka gestured about him. “You won’t be able to challenge the more experienced melders, but I will teach you everything you need in order to survive.”

“I’m willing to learn whatever is necessary to see Delisar freed, whatever will prevent those I care about from dying,” Keedar said. The sentiment had been with him stronger than ever since Succession Day.

“Are you now?” Keshka gave a joyless smile. “So what stopped you from killing those hunters? You knew they were lying, that they were a threat, yet you looked to escape first.”

“It seemed the smarter thing to do at the time.”

“Smarter or less bloody?” Keshka did not give him a chance to answer. “Sooner or later you will use your power to kill again, whether you wish to or not. You must embrace that reality as well as understand that you cannot save everyone. People
will
die, people you care about, perhaps myself, or Winslow, or someone else. Are you truly willing to do what is necessary, or are those just words?”

Keedar swallowed. Although he’d vowed to prevent the suffering of those he cared for, he hadn’t stopped to consider that they could still die regardless of his efforts. And he had another issue, the fear of taking a life. Again.

He glanced down at his hands. He could see the blood on them. Forgotten in the heat and fear of pursuit, killing Gaston hadn’t invaded his mind until the night they first reached Keshka’s cottage. His dagger piercing Gaston’s chest had since occupied much of his waking moments, found him in sweats many a night. The surprised look in the boy’s eye, the gurgle of death, and the smell of blood were all too real. He doubted if he was prepared to experience such again, or if he would ever be ready.