Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2)

Twenty years after the old world ended in fire, Xander Sykes travels the deserts of a drastically changed Mithgar. His fascination with the world he never knew—along with his strange abilities—divides him from his clan. But otherworldly forces interrupt his exile.

Pursued by enemies from above and beneath the world, Xander bands together with an ambassador from hell, his heavenly bodyguard, and a reformed guildsman seeking to right his order’s wrongs.

The search for answers leads to a vast, decaying city haunted by a presence as tormented as it is deadly. Xander finds a survivor who may give purpose to his nameless longing—if he can help her escape the terror that stalks them both.

Almeth Elocine staggers across the narrow span. Though there is no “was” or “will be” in Kairos, Almeth’s footsteps bear the weight of regret and herald woe to come. Their echo carries farther than his slight build warrants.

The bridge—an alabaster beam suspended over a canyon of whirring cogs—traverses every epoch of history. Oblivious to the abyss yawning below, Almeth walks on, harried by defeat. Kairos is time as the gods know it, and the traveler’s memory of certain victory turned to rout seems only moments old.

The ubiquitous machinery turns in a continual dance of shifting fractal patterns, and Almeth hears again the guardians’ voices. They hail him as the last god; Faerda made flesh, ignoring how his sex and dark hair contradict classic depictions of the goddess. He suffers these titles; comes to embrace them and finally to believe.

Ahead, the towers of spinning gears part to reveal the terminus. It is the last place that Almeth wishes to be, yet he recognizes the heart of Kairos as the natural end of his pride. All other paths are shut to him. Now he sees the platform clearly. A tall stocky figure in a red cloak and blue coat stands at the head of the bridge, waiting.

“Elocine! It’s not too late to turn back!”

If Almeth is surprised by the man’s presence, he gives no sign. Unhindered he answers, “the Guild rules the spheres now, Cleolin. Where would you have me turn back to?”

Cleolin’s brow is stern, but the hardness doesn’t reach his eyes. “I would ask you the same, Blackbow. Even a mortal such as I knows that one may reach any place or time from Kairos.”

Almeth sees the syndex’s muscles tense at his approach—a message clear as bared steel. “Everything’s gone wrong.” Almeth’s voice hardly exceeds a whisper. “I’m the last. Only I can mend it.”

The syndex of Midras frowns—an act which oft sets foes to flight. Cleolin Redbeard must see his former captain’s pallid face; the cold sweat that’s turned his hair into a mat of black lambswool. The priest knows that he is witnessing a marvel without precedent—Almeth Elocine is afraid.

“Turn aside, Almeth, whatever your intent. To rewrite fate’s decrees is folly, even for a god!”

Though faltering, Almeth’s pace doesn’t slow. “The resistance is lost,” he says without inflection. “Should I leave my people in thrall to an upstart fiend?”

“The remnant of Annon chose their lot. The guardians may yet survive in Strata untouched by the Brotherhood.”

The human priest and the godly Gen stand face to face below the broad stair. Cleolin’s visage is grim. His pores exude a sour smell.

Almeth smiles without mirth. “You speak without forethought, as is your race’s wont. Wheresoever I lead my broken following, the Void shall overtake us in time.”

“The Guild; not the Void, has conquered the spheres.”

“One is merely the consequence of the other,” Almeth says, pressing forward. A smooth motion of the priest’s hand sends an icy jolt through his torso and halts his progress.

Cleolin withdraws his red-tipped blade. “Forgive me this sacrilege.”

Almeth collapses. The priest’s firm embrace is all that keep him from folding to the floor.

“Failure is a gift,”
speaks a voice from the past. Yet all times are present to Almeth here.

Have I not failed enough for one life, Ebrim—for a hundred?

Urgency beyond all self-concern drives Almeth back to his feet. He looks upon the syndex’s startled face a final time and exerts his will. Kairos itself propels Cleolin backward so rapidly that his imposing form instantly recedes to a distant mote. His scream reaches Almeth seconds after he vanishes beyond the terminus.

Almeth presses his cloak to the wound and staggers to the edge of Kairos. The last tie binding him to life in this cosmos is gone. Now emptied of all feeling, he sits down to wait.

Xander imagined the trail winding through the dunes as a golden road flanked by heaps of gold dust. Perhaps the heat inspired his daydream. More likely it was his mother’s tale—one of the few she’d told only in his father’s absence, and even then only in whispers. Her claim that Zadok had made the world in such a marvelous place was not contrary to Nesshin lore. But the rest of her story had seemed heterodox to him even as a child.

Xander recalled his mother’s words, if not her voice.
God divided his body to make the whole universe. The spheres, the stars, and the White Well’s light are all parts of him. He divided his mind to make all lesser minds—humans, Gen, and malakhim. By learning from one another, each of us would teach God something new about himself.

The lesson that God most hoped to learn was how to destroy evil. So corruption entered the once pure world. Everyone suffered, but since God himself had been corrupted, he was powerless to save them.

Despite the passage of years, the tale’s bleak implications still troubled Xander. If the creator could not save creation, what cause was there for hope? His mother had smiled when she’d answered his objection.

You must never lose hope, my son. A man lost in the desert may look to the empty sky and, despairing, succumb to his thirst. But in so doing he may miss a peal of thunder that signals approaching rain. If he could see the clouds over the horizon, he would not need hope, for he would know. If we could see beyond our own minds; beyond the One Mind that contains us all, perhaps we would know the reason for our hope.

Xander sighed. Sometimes he envied his mother’s belief that each person carried a spark of the divine and a unique, God-given destiny. Though blasphemous, her way seemed more merciful than living as a servant bound for judgment.

But where is my destined place, if not here?
The question had practical merit. Though he’d seen eighteen summers, Xander’s failure to prove his worth consigned him to extended childhood with no personal status in the clan.

These dreary thoughts woke Xander from his daydream. The street of gold faded, leaving only the well-worn path upon which his tribe’s caravan toiled. From Xander’s place in the rearguard, each wagon with its escort of tanned men in faded cloaks looked like one segment of a huge plodding beast—a beast that smelled of sweat and horse and iron.

Accustomed to lighter duty, Xander’s lungs burned and his muscles ached. He shaded his eyes with a plump hand to check the sky for the hundredth time. The sun’s distance from the horizon told him that three hours had passed since noon.

Past the hard part.
The lead driver would soon call a halt, and the clan would make camp for the bitter cold night. Another late summer day on the Nesshin trade route through the Desert of Penance.

At least
summer
is what Father calls it,
Xander thought. He wrapped a brown scarf around his shaved head to keep out the sand-laden wind. With Highwater two weeks behind, the mountains at the desert’s end—and Medvia beyond—would be only a few days’ journey east.

Xander trudged beside the rumbling wagon and dreamed of the oasis town with its verdant parks for sport and its dimly lit gambling parlors. Something struck his head, rudely shaking him from his second reverie.

Xander reflexively straightened and returned his spear to its proper angle perpendicular to the ground. His steps lengthened into the gliding stride favored by his people. He turned his bruised head in the direction of the blow, expecting to find one of the van wardens calling him to task with a disapproving frown. Instead he found…no one. Only an empty spot where his fellow guard Sem had been walking.

Another blow stung Xander squarely between the shoulder blades, originating from the formerly unoccupied space to his left.

Not wishing to be caught off guard again, Xander cautiously peered over his left shoulder and saw the tall, rust-cloaked form of his younger companion.

Sem’s grin failed to brighten his dull face. “Pardon me. I must be heat-addled to mistake the quartermaster’s son for a lazy ass. Perhaps it is for the best. A touch of the rod seems to work whether the ass is lazy or just fat.”

Xander rubbed the solid lump of his belly. Shame burned in his chest, calling to mind the kitchen of his childhood home, where his mother had been telling her last tale before…

Do not let memory cloud your thoughts!
Xander urged himself.
Fond memories hide the pain of the past.

“My girth is no hindrance on the field in Medvia,” Xander said as he fell in beside Sem.

“That was before. I’ll beat you this year!”

“It is time you gave up sport,” Xander said. “I could recommend you to my father. He always needs new ass-herds.”

Sem sneered. The butt of his spear swept down toward the bridge of Xander’s nose. Xander blocked. Sem thrust the spear point at his rival’s face.

Xander’s body couldn’t react to the blow in time, but his will responded by reflex. He stood unflinching as the spearhead stopped within an inch of his eye and slid away as if the air were a sheet of greased steel.

His balance upset, Sem fell to the ground. He was just regaining his feet when a blocky figure stepped between the two boys.

Xander tilted his head to peer at the newcomer. The broad-shouldered man bore a thick unpolished staff. His shapeless nose proved his experience with it. He wore a many-patched long coat that appeared to be washed regularly in mud. The original color of Azil’s coat was a perennial topic of debate among the drivers who served under him.

Azil growled as he hefted Sem level with his coarse bearded face. Sem interposed his trembling spear between himself and the lead driver.

Azil’s grin flashed from under his beard, managing to appear menacing and amused all at once. “Has no one shown you how to hold a weapon, boy?” he asked, peeling the spear from Sem’s grip with his free hand.

“I am no child!” Sem croaked through clenched teeth. “The Council of Merchants will declare me worthy when they convene in Medvia.”

Azil canted the spear over his shoulder and roughly set the youth on his feet. “Well, boy, bring a grievance against me at the next meeting.” He enveloped both spear and staff in one massive fist. “Meanwhile, I will hold onto this until you learn the difference between a fat human and a death worm. Now, go and see that Meiron’s horse is shod when we make camp.”

Sem turned his frustration on Xander one final time, checking the older boy’s shoulder before storming off on his errand.

Xander muttered his people’s vilest curse. “
Thera emitte sherrad!
”

“If Thera shares his bed, I know not whom to pity,” said Azil. “It is a blessing that I came along, son of Altor; though none deny that you are blessed. If not for your father, I doubt you’d enjoy life so well.”

Xander inclined his head and spoke flatly. “Thank you for praising my father’s vital role in the clan. I will pass your remarks on to him. Perhaps your place in the market will be more favorable this year.” Raising an eyebrow he asked, “Is that why you came to my lowly post?”

“I have no need of a laggard child’s favor,” Barked Azil. “I was sent to bring you to your father’s wagon. ‘
Unharmed
,’ he said, as if afraid you would faint along the way!”

“He was probably more concerned about your ham-fisted wrath,” Xander mocked.

“Anyone else would have cause for concern. Now come, I have more pressing work than playing swineherd.”

Xander held his tongue and followed. Though he feigned indifference, being called weak stung worse than his bruised head. It was true that he lacked the raw strength and hardihood of his peers, but he had other virtues—subtler, yet no less useful.

Even Xander didn’t fully understand his gift. It had been bitter to receive, but he’d turned the ability to his advantage. Sem’s failed attempt to skewer his eye was proof of that.

Xander’s gift had other merits. Though only eighteen, he enjoyed renown as the tribe’s most lucrative sportsman and gambler. Not even the strange games played in distant towns could deny him victory. Darts, balls, and dice alike seldom went astray.