Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) (4 page)

Two sets of strong, mail-clad shoulders supported Xander’s arms. Though exhaustion pushed him to the edge of unconsciousness, he could tell where he was by the blessed moisture in the air. The Shrine of Water, God’s Blessing stood alone upon the shore of a lake. Fed by a sacred spring, the Water was the saving grace that staved off the desert and made Medvia prosper.

Relief and puzzlement contended in Xander’s mind. Shouldn’t he still be days from town? Perhaps he was dreaming. But if he had reached Medvia, so had the caravan—including his father.

A pair of shrine guards carried Xander through sun-drenched streets toward the two floor step pyramid. The green and blue waves painted on the temple’s façade, and the gentle lapping of real waves nearby, lulled Xander’s fevered mind to sleep.

Xander awoke on a canvas cot in a small room that smelled of ointments. His muscles throbbed dully. Two priests clad in white, blue-striped robes sat across the dim chamber watching him. They gave him clean-tasting water, told to him drink it slowly, and admonished him to remain in bed for the rest of the afternoon. Then they left to attend their sacred office.

When the cup sat empty by his bed and the heat haze had lifted from his mind, Xander thought about the strange images pressed into his memory. The humming radiance haunted by strange shapes, his wild flight from a pack of unnatural beasts; the stranger who wielded the setting sun.

Releasing a long sigh, Xander tilted his head back and ran a hand over the bristles his scalp had grown for want of a razor. He stared at the cracked ceiling, but his mind’s eye saw the last wolf-thing charging toward him—its talons sending up gouts of sand; the raw slashes over its eye glowing red as hot iron.

The surprised look in that dark eye when an invisible wall had stopped the wolf’s charge.

A pang of guilt stabbed Xander’s heart. However dire his need, he’d always resisted using his power directly on other living souls.

That is a lie,
he thought, and the unbidden memory of his mother twisted guilt’s knife. Xander recited a proverb against letting the past color the present. His guilt subsided, but the loneliness was worse.

Xander was about to seek consolation in sleep when the linen curtain draped across the room’s entrance rustled. A grey-haired man in a priestly robe thrust the curtain aside and swept his gaze over the chamber. His vigilant eyes settled on the young Nesshin.

Xander’s spirits lifted. “My Lord Pontifex,” he greeted Medvia’s high priest.

“You’ve come back to us,” the pontifex said as he entered. The two priests who’d kept vigil over Xander followed. “Thank God!”

Xander looked forward to visiting the pontifex each year. In addition to setting a lavish board, the old priest knew as many tales of pre-Cataclysm Mithgar as his father, and he told them more freely. “Thank you for saving me,” Xander said.

The pontifex’s weathered hands made a dismissive gesture. “We merely gave you water and a place to lay your head. Your Nesshin hardiness did the rest.”

Xander sat up, despite his muscles’ complaints. “Nonetheless, I am in your debt.”

The pontifex exchanged a wary look with his attendants. “Then perhaps you can explain the mark.”

“What mark?”

“The one on your right shoulder.”

The pontifex’s eyes held neither lies nor uncertainty. Xander pulled off his shirt and stared transfixed at what he saw.

Three sinuous lines descended from a large empty circle, each touching one of three black shapes—a small square beside a diamond of equal size, and a large triangle below them. The pattern was wholly alien to Xander. He scoured it with his hand, but the mark didn't yield. There was neither scar nor scab. No sticky dampness of drying ink met his fingers. There was only the feeling of smooth skin, as if the symbol were a natural formation of his own pigments.

Suspicion invaded Xander’s bafflement. “How did you know about it?”

“I discovered the mark while checking you for wounds as you slept,” the second priest said. “None here have seen its like.”

“Neither have I!” Xander insisted.
Perhaps the light was not a dream,
something whispered from the depths of his mind
.
Perhaps this is part of the same madness.
He almost spoke these thoughts aloud, but for his conviction that doing so would only compound the mystery.

“Our chief interest is your well-being,” said the pontifex.

Xander hastily donned his shirt. “I am humbled by your concern for my safety, and I'm grateful for your help; but where is my father? Surely he told you how I was separated from the caravan.”

The pontifex’s eyes widened for a moment, but then he frowned. “I must admit that I do not understand your question, young Xander.”

“What is not to understand? I only want to know where my father is, and my people. I realize that he may not wish to see me. We parted on unhappy terms. Has he…told you of our last meeting?”

The pontifex clasped his hands to his chest and approached Xander’s bedside. “I cannot answer what you ask of me, except to say what you must already know. The Nesshin are not expected for some days. Your presence here is the true mystery, my young friend.”

Xander frowned. Still holding onto a shred of disbelief he asked, “Why do you expect the caravan so late? We have never missed opening day at the market.”

“My son,” the pontifex said, “the market doesn’t open for six days.”

“It does not?”

“No. In fact, we wondered why you came so early. Some of the priests and merchants are very concerned. Was your tribe forced to leave Highwater in haste? Please, tell me something to allay their fears.”

“Why?” Xander asked, “What are they afraid of?”

“They fear some misfortune—that there will be no goods to trade; no coin to feed their children. There are rumors that another upheaval cast Highwater into the abyss. The folk there hold strange beliefs, and their city stands at the brink of perdition.”

“Where it still stands, for all I know,” said Xander. “We came and went from there, traveling on my people’s road through the desert. I lost the caravan before they reached the mountains. Now answer me this: how did I find Medvia after only a day's walk?”

The pontifex spoke in his gentlest tone. “That isn’t possible. Perhaps you walked much longer, and heat exhaustion fooled your sense of time.”

Xander met the pontifex’s eyes with a heated glare. “You joke at my expense—and my father’s behest.”

“Your father?”

“Yes. It shames me to say this, but my father named me outcast at our last meeting. He judged me unfit to follow my people’s ways. He must’ve left me in the desert to teach me the depth of his disappointment.”

The pontifex’s stature seemed to shrink from the dignity of a high priest to the fretfulness of an elderly uncle. He knelt and brushed Xander’s cheek with his hand, discreetly wiping away the single tear that had fallen. “I’m sorry to have distressed you. Be welcome in Medvia, my son. You may stay in my house as long as you wish. Nothing will be denied you, by my command.”

Xander nodded dumbly as he mulled over his father’s betrayal.

The pontifex rose to leave; then turned in the doorway to offer a final valediction. “I have known your father long,” he said. “We endured many hardships together—first out of necessity; then as friends. I know him better than anyone your age can. Altor Sykes would never abandon the child of his wife’s flesh to the desert.”

Xander remained still for several minutes after the pontifex had gone. At last he swung his feet up onto the cot and lay down. It was still not long past noon. The single square window yawned empty in the wall, admitting diffuse waves of light and heat into the shadowed room.

Has my father truly not come? If not, where is he?

Thinking of his father made Xander’s heart ache. But thought soon gave way to strange roiling dreams.

Half a continent from the Desert of Penance, Jemai’s torn hands groped for purchase on a black ridge face. Ropy muscles strained as he climbed. Burning desire urged him onward, but his strength failed. Gasping for air, he clung to the jagged rock as if it were the last solid piece of the world.

Jemai watched the skin stretch over his ribs with every heaving breath. His tattered robe, once white as fine flour, was stained with dirt and blood. The people of Vale had clothed him in it upon choosing him for the Journey to Save All Souls. They’d said that the pilgrimage would ensure a good harvest. So he’d gone into the wide lands beyond seeking a pillar of fire.

“Travel toward the rising sun,” he wheezed, repeating his friends’ words, “till you find the abode of Fire between the mountains and the sea.”

Jemai still didn’t understand how the Fire would help his village, but being sent to find it was a great honor for an orphan. He’d enjoyed the trip at first. The prairie east of Vale was filled with the aroma of dried grass and the calls of migrating birds. The tops of the tall stalks glowed like torches each evening, tinted a rich yellow-red as they caught the setting sun. He’d tarried in these gilded fields, wandering aimlessly until his food was spent and his way became hard.

Jemai had begun to lose heart until one evening when the grass’ fiery glow kindled in him a desire to ascend. In his mind, he saw himself soaring high above the ground, running in the starry fields of night; and coming at last to the sun’s secret resting place.

Full to bursting with undreamt gladness, Jemai had rejoiced in the brazen plain. How he’d longed to stay there always, held in the arms of the sun! But the day had gone at last, snuffing the glorious fire and leaving the prairie dark as ash. The lost pilgrim had sunk to his knees, cupped his face in his hands, and wept for the death of his dream.

Through the lattice of his wet fingers, Jemai had spied what he’d given up hope of seeing—a faint trace of the glory that had filled him. He caught a glimpse of it upon the mountains that rose black as coal on his right. There, a red-gold glow still lined the broken peaks.

Hope had rekindled in Jemai’s heart. The sun still waited beyond the mountains. He’d raced through the fields on stiff spindly legs, drawn to the golden light that never seemed to fade.

Days later, Jemai lay panting on a broken peak. The spark of memory stoked his feverish need once more. Strength came back to his aching limbs, and he hauled himself over the crest of the ridge.

At first he feared that the red-gold light had vanished. Then he looked down and saw what lay beyond the mountains. A wide fault cut across the range’s knees. Below the ridge, barren foothills marched away north and south. Beyond the hills, a wide plain spread out under the dark of night.

Jemai had heard that the mountains stood near the sea. Yet there were no crashing waves; no salty breezes gusting up from deep waters. Silence filled his ears, and his nose caught a faint whiff of cinders.

I won’t give up!
Jemai had come too far; had suffered too much. He’d wait for another sign, no matter how long it took.

His wait wasn’t long. A pillar of flame rose from the darkened plain. There, Jemai saw a firelit vision to shame any story. Colossal ruins lining wide, rubble-choked streets fanned out from the foothills. What little he could see covered more land than a thousand Vales.

Jemai’s fevered memory gave up a name.
The Tower Graves.

He dimly recalled his master’s wife warning her sons against visiting the place. No one had warned Jemai—probably because the miller would welcome the chance to find a new apprentice. Still, he’d gathered that the place had been a great city whose wickedness had called down Fire to scour the world. The towers raised in defiance of heaven had become blackened tombs in the space of a breath. But it was said that here, alone of all the lands it had laid waste, an ember of the Fire still haunted the dead city that had kindled it.

By the pillar’s light, Jemai saw that the city’s roads ran together like the spokes of a wheel. He sought the point where they met. There, a black wall straddled the horizon, invisible but for the fire reflected in its polished surface.

Jemai’s courage almost failed. Somehow he knew that he should fear the mountain at the crumbling city’s heart. But the flame beckoned him.

“I shouldn’t of doubted you,” he croaked through bleeding lips. “I knew you’d save me.”

The fire’s glow doubled, entering his soul through his eyes. Jemai saw through the world to where colors changed places; to the big pyramid behind the sky. The fire’s thoughts were his, and it wept and laughed for him, burning away slights he never knew he’d suffered.

Jemai arose purified and strode forward, his heart light. He slid down the loose hillside and laughed as he plunged into the abyss.

Damus stood with Nahel in the early afternoon heat, staring across the sunbaked road at the water shrine. He strained to see through the windows, but the temple was as dark as a tomb. The only soul in sight was a lean young man standing in the shady entrance alcove. His white robe bereft of blue stripes named him an acolyte.

“Do you have to do this now?” asked Nahel.

Damus rounded on the malakh. “Have you gone mad? The Nesshin is in there
now
. Each minute we delay is another minute spent
here
.”

Nahel shrugged. “He probably needs his rest.”

“He got sunstroke from mucking about in the desert,” Damus said. “We’re stuck in a town that compares unfavorably to hell.”

“I’m telling the queen you said that.”

“You’re an awful liar, Nahel. If these fine folk saw you binding a messenger, they’d stone you for necromancy.”

“If they can’t tell a Mystery from a Malefaction,” said Nahel, “I might take your offer and leave you here.”

Damus gave the malakh a sour look. “No one enters Avalon without the queen’s consent. And you rightly observed that a guard who forsakes his charge is unlikely to get it.”

“I still don’t see how one Nesshin can help us.”

Damus flung an arm around his companion’s furry shoulders. “As I said before, our aim is to book passage with a caravan. We’ll approach
this
Nesshin, and he’ll conduct us to his clan.”