Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) (15 page)

Damus rolled onto his back with a pained grunt. He extracted himself from his sword and pried what metal and glass shards he could from his hands. After a brief rest on the hard floor, he rose to a crouch and searched for a way out.

The answer soon presented itself. Just to the left of the opening, the rock had been deeply gouged in a more or less regular pattern resembling handholds. Damus craned his neck and saw that the makeshift ladder stretched to the top of the bluff.

I won’t lose another friend to this damnable place,
Damus vowed. He wrapped his aching hands in strips torn from his coat and gripped the first handhold.

“You live
here
?” Xander marveled.

Astlin emerged from the hallway, having settled Nadia into her room. “Sorry. I didn’t have time to clean.”

Xander looked around the living room. Toys and wrinkled clothes littered the floor. A citrus scent partially masked the smell of spoiled food. Though unkempt, the residence boasted multiple rooms, lush carpets, glazed windows—luxuries to provoke a quartermaster’s envy.

“I meant no insult. Your apartments are worthy of a prince.”

Astlin blinked. “Where on Mithgar are you from again?”

“The Nesshin are nomads. Our road takes us from Highwater to Vale and back again.”

Astlin’s expression remained puzzled. “Is that anywhere near Ostrith?”

“Most people shun Ostrith. They say it died in the Cataclysm.”

“Oh, right,” said Astlin. “The Cataclysm.”

A collection of crystal plaques arranged on a windowsill caught Xander’s eye. He approached and saw images inside them. Startlingly lifelike, they seemed to be moments frozen in time. He recognized younger versions of Astlin and Neriad, and an infant who must have been Nadia. One image portrayed a dark-haired woman whose melancholy features belied her smile and a red-haired, blue-eyed man whose creased mouth betrayed that he smiled often.

“You bear your father’s likeness,” said Xander.

Astlin joined him by the window. “Admiring the Tremore family album?”

Xander noticed something odd about the images. “Why do none of them hold all of you?”

“It’s hard to keep us together.”

An uneasy silence fell. Xander scanned the apartment and realized that most of the people in the pictures were absent. “I understand.”

“What?”

Xander hesitated before answering. “Your loneliness.”

Indignation flashed in Astlin’s eyes but faded quickly. “Your family doesn’t get along?”

Xander fumbled for a tactful way to explain himself. At last he settled for the truth. “My mother died when I was young. A few days ago I wandered from my father’s caravan. No one has seen him since.”

Astlin’s face fell, but determination soon replaced her grief. “We have to tell the Guild house. They’ll report him missing to Ostrith.”

“Thank you, but I doubt my father wants to be found. He banished me from the tribe.”

Astlin pressed a hand to her mouth. She drew close and touched his arm. “I’m sorry.”

Xander’s roiling heart calmed. “Sorry for what?”

“For not listening before.”

Xander couldn’t help grinning. “You have troubles enough without hearing mine.”

Astlin managed a faint smile in response. “I should start dinner. Make yourself at home. If you need to wash up, the bathroom’s down the hall on the left.”

“You have your own bath?”

Astlin nodded.

“Save your water for cooking. No need to draw more for my sake.”

The young woman covered her mouth again; this time to stifle laughter. “We have running water.”

Xander’s jaw dropped. “Even for the bath?”

“On the fifth floor? We’d better.”

“What is your father’s trade?”

“He’s a steersman, but not a Guild member. He just has a license.”

Xander ignored Astlin’s slight hesitation. “My father was right,” he said. “The Guild’s riches were beyond count.”

Astlin’s halfhearted smile returned. “Dinner might change your mind.”

Breathing heavily through the cloth strips tied over his face, Szodrin looked out across the Salmeara Valley. From his vantage point in the hills, nothing unnatural disturbed the moonlit bowl below. Only a steel arch framing a tunnel far to his right spoke of human artifice. He briefly wondered what lay within its inky depths.

Szodrin cursed under his breath. He’d always meant to return for the boy, but marking him had been a foolish mistake. His superiors knew that he could track the wayward human’s life cord. It didn’t matter that Ilmin had left for Cadrys. When Szodrin found the boy, the
Ashlam
would follow.

Forgive me, Sarel.

Enough moping. Time was short. Picturing the mark, Szodrin shifted his perception halfway between the Middle Stratum and the ether. The valley seemed to lose substance, filling with rosy mist. The silver glint of an arrow-straight prana line cutting through the haze caught his eye. Momentarily puzzled that the life cord traveled north, opposite the boy’s last known location, the Night Gen drew an intriguing conclusion.

There’s a gate somewhere nearby.
Had the boy entered Teran Nazim and escaped alive?

Szodrin aligned his own life cord with a level area below the far ridge and willed himself there. His vision whited out as he and his gear reverted to pure prana gliding along the cord. An instant later he stood in the sand ten feet from his intended target. Unaided nexic translation wasn’t exact, but it beat walking.

Within minutes Szodrin found the door. It gave on a rock-hewn chamber that had half caved in long ago. More recently someone had opened a hatch in the floor. Acrid vapors wafted up from below. Seeing no other way, the Night Gen descended.

Szodrin couldn’t say how long he wandered through the dim underground. He lost his way often, but he had no doubt of where he was. Walking unchallenged through his enemies’ stronghold gave him smug satisfaction. At the same time, he felt almost cheated.

Centuries of oppression; centuries more spent planning revenge, and nothing to take vengeance on but crumbling monuments empty even of ghosts.

The nexic burst sent ripples like a stone tossed into a pond. In an instant Szodrin was fully alert and searching for the source. His keen eyes found the dim hall empty in both directions.

It’s too soon for Ilmin.
Yet it wouldn’t be unlike his captain to leave watchers behind.

Szodrin weighed his options. Translation was out. With no endpoint in sight, he risked projecting himself into solid rock. One choice remained. Tracing the bundled conduits snaking along the walls, he rushed onward in search of the gate.

After wending his way through lightless halls and doubling back from frequent dead ends, Szodrin reached an intersection. Faded markings told him that the cross corridor led to the gate complex. He turned right without slowing and charged down the narrow hall.

Behind him, the warning ripples of nexism came too late.

Szodrin froze, straining to hear over the thudding of his heart. The abrupt realization that someone stood at his back nearly silenced its beating forever.

The commander half expected to see a demon of the Circles when he turned, but he saw only another Night Gen wearing a tan Expeditionary Fleet uniform. At first Szodrin took the man for Ilmin’s watchdog, but his shock turned to confusion when he recognized Captain Ruthven of the
Kerioth
.

Szodrin cast about for a lie to extricate himself, but seeing Ruthven’s strangely indolent face, he opted for confrontation.

“Captain, what are you doing here?”

Ruthven’s expression didn’t change. His empty stare remained fixed on some distant point. His slouched posture and disheveled clothes betrayed a startling lack of discipline.

“You are captain Ruthven of the
Kerioth
?”

“Not since the pale man came aboard,” the shabby figure said.

Acting on impulse, Szodrin backed away.

“Where are you going?” Ruthven asked.

Szodrin paused. “To fulfill my orders.”

The captain issued a series of petulant whines that made his body shudder.

Szodrin forced his voice to remain steady. “The
Kerioth
went missing. Can you tell me what happened?”

Ruthven’s shuddering stopped, and his eyes snapped into focus on Szodrin. The captain’s face glazed over with a look of genuine confusion. Strands of drool dripped from his mouth.

“Missing?” Ruthven rasped. His puzzled expression became a smirk, and he jabbed a crooked finger at Szodrin. “You aren’t after the Gen-ship.” Ropy spittle flew from his swollen lips. “You want the human…
Xander
.”

Szodrin set his jaw and reached for the short sword at his side.

The captain’s face melted like wax. His body made impossible contortions, accompanied by sickening sounds like splintering wood.

Szodrin ran for the gate.

Ruthven sprang after him. He ripped at his prey with wicked claws that burst from his mangled hands.

The commander turned with sword in hand. He struck several times, but his foe’s doughy flesh closed as soon as a wound was made. One claw batted the blade aside while the other lashed at Szodrin’s head. The commander ducked right, and a blow meant for his eyes clipped his ear. The next strike slid past Szodrin’s blade to tear his arm and puncture the soft flesh below his armpit.

Szodrin clutched his throbbing arm and lunged backward. He saw that fighting would only bring him death.

With Ruthven bearing down on him, Szodrin lowered his blade. “Enough! I submit!”

The twisted captain regained his blank expression, but his eyes kept their ravenous glare. His murderous advance did not slow.

“Let me join you,” Szodrin said.

Ruthven halted but kept his bloody claws raised.

“Ilmin abandoned me,” Szodrin continued. “Why take my life when you could have my loyalty?”

“You will help us?” Ruthven asked.

“As much as I can.”

Ruthven stood still, his waxen face betraying nothing of his thoughts. At last, he jabbed a hooked claw at Szodrin. “Go,” he ordered, gesturing toward the gate.

Fighting a wave of fear, Szodrin turned and marched down the corridor. His twisted foe followed close behind.

As they neared the end, the commander pondered the
Kerioth’s
fate. Her captain had clearly broken faith with the fleet, but why? Had there been a mutiny? Perhaps, but Ruthven’s sorry state suggested something worse. Shaiel’s minions weren’t above such depravity, but they favored methods more brutal and less creative.

The hallway opened onto a small chamber covered with industrial-looking equipment. Three white ceramic steps rose to a small platform at the room’s center.

Szodrin faced his captor. “What now?”

Ruthven approached a console at the foot of the steps. A slim card of clear crystal jutted from a slot amid the controls. The captain clutched the card in his talons, removed it, and slid it back into place. Szodrin squinted as a scintillating orb burst into being on the dais, expanding to fill the topmost tier.

Ruthven left the console and prodded Szodrin toward the sphere. The commander did as he was ordered, marveling at the gate’s resemblance to a nexic translator’s light. Any similarity was superficial. The Guild’s denial of nexism made the gate a product of Workings.

Szodrin stepped through the light and onto another, far larger platform. He hardly noticed his impossibly vast surroundings before he bolted back through the gate, passing Ruthven in a mad dash for the console. A shrill cry sounded from the platform as Szodrin tore the card from its slot. Ruthven’s claws sank into Szodrin’s chest, and both men fell.

Lying in a warm pool of blood, the commander pushed his foe away and found the effort surprisingly easy. He rose and stared at Ruthven’s upper torso—severed just below the shoulders when the gate closed. Tumors and cartilaginous growths riddled the body cavity.

Szodrin wasted no time savoring his victory. He didn’t know what had corrupted Ruthven, but it knew about the boy. He jammed the card back into its slot and plunged through the gate.

Damus slid down the bluff’s windward slope and found himself standing before ruins that resembled the charred bones of giants. Debris choked the wide streets, testifying that the towers had once stood even taller. Windows stared from crumbling walls like empty eye sockets.