Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) (43 page)

“I don’t buy it,” Cook told Smith. “You joined Thurif willingly. The two of you must’ve planned this together.”

“They never met Szodrin,” Astlin said. “Unless he really did kill Thurif.”

“And robbed you of your vengeance,” said Sulaiman.

Astlin turned to him. “If Szodrin spared me a death, I’m grateful.”

“Give him thanks, then.” Smith’s tendrils burst outward in a riot of cogs. “And worship my masterpiece!”

Tefler scowled. “You turned Szodrin into a god?”

Smith grinned like a child who’d stolen a cookie behind everyone’s back.

Embodiment of fire though she was, Astlin felt a chill.

“You’ve made a god,” Sulaiman said, “but can you unmake others?”

“Destroy,” said Smith. “Create—two names for the same thing.”

Cook crossed his arms. “Now I trust him even less.”

“Don’t be so hostile,” Tefler said. “Let’s hear him out.”

“You can’t kill a god,” said Cook. “That’s what being a god means!”

“Spoken like a scholar,” Smith said, perching himself on the table like gears spilling in reverse, “but if a mortal fated for godhood were killed prior to divinization…”

“Then you do govern Kairos,” Sulaiman said, “as other souldancers rule their Strata?”

“Are you so ignorant of our kind?” Smith leered at Astlin. “Rule, nothing; I
am
Kairos.”

Tefler’s brow furrowed. “Which Stratum is Kairos?”

“It’s not,” said Cook. “Kairos is a kind of time.”

“There’s more than one?”

“Kairos is the gods’ time,” Cook explained, “sacred time that touches eternity.”

“I completely understood that,” Tefler said, failing to hide his confusion.

Sulaiman’s hands trembled. “Then what I would attempt is possible. Through Kairos I can return to a time when Thera is yet a souldancer and can be slain ere her godhood’s restored.”

“Traveling Kairos is difficult,” said Smith. “Killing to unmake a god is even harder, since preventing the victim’s theosis removes the reason for killing.”

“The
Burned Book
of Bifron’s cult warned of such contradictions,” said Sulaiman. “I may have resolved them.”

Smith’s gear-like eyes narrowed. “Speak.”

“My foe caused the Cataclysm. I’d wish to kill her whether mortal or divine.”

Astlin’s unease had grown throughout the conversation, and now she’d heard enough. “Are you seriously talking about changing the past?”

Sulaiman’s eyes never left Smith as he answered. “We must use the means afforded us.”

Astlin’s mind reeled with the implications of what she’d heard. “You planned this all along. Why didn’t you tell us? How did you keep it from
me
?”

“He’s not the only one who kept things from us,” Cook grumbled. His words stung Astlin like a lash.

Sulaiman faced her. “Dwelling in the house of another mind-reader taught me to guard some thoughts—and to reveal those I would make known. As for why I held my counsel, I need not your gift to read the rebellion kindled in your heart.”

“Xander,” Astlin said softly. “If you stop the Cataclysm, I’ll never know him.”

“Yet lives unnumbered will be saved,” said Sulaiman, “his among them.”

Conflicting passions drove Astlin to silence. Losing Xander was agony; the thought of never having known him awoke a terror she’d never thought possible. But an inner voice clear as glass cut through her fears.

He’ll be alive. Xander and all of those people will live!

“I still don’t think it’ll work,” said Cook.

“Perhaps the smith speaks truly,” Sulaiman said. “Perhaps not. The mystery will wait till we’re far from Shaiel’s grasp.”

“I’ll fly us back to the
Serapis
,” said Astlin.

Tefler arched an eyebrow. “I thought you hated flying this thing.”

“Doing nothing would be worse,” she said as she hurried from the room.

Sulaiman marched from the
Kerioth’s
gangway to the
Serapis’
hangar. His footfalls on the matte grey deck faded before they could echo from the distant walls and ceiling.

Anticipation of the great work’s end lent haste to his steps. Smith’s workroom on the Night Gen ship was equal to the task. Sulaiman had only to obtain a few necessary materials.

And resolve the matter of Tefler…

Sulaiman heard the priest of Thera and the cook debark after him, followed at a distance by Astlin. He spared her a backward glance, saw her smoothing the silk and leather dress created when Smith had swarmed over Hazeroth’s coat, and marveled at her fortitude. The black gown with its long sleeves and hem befit a woman in mourning, and Sulaiman dared not forget giving her fresh cause to grieve.

“We’re up two ships and minus a Hazeroth,” Tefler said. “Let’s celebrate. Where’s a good place to eat on Keth?”

“The hour of laughter comes not till the days of sorrow are full,” Sulaiman said.

Cook glanced at Astlin. She quickly looked away.

The procession resumed, more somber than before. A chill crept into the already cool air, along with a golden glow that only deepened the shadows.

Astlin gave a startled cry. Sulaiman turned and saw her staring at the closing hangar door. The narrowing rectangle of daylight framed a dark figure.

A high cold voice resounded from every dark corner. “Such revels sound passing fair. Shall we sup together?”

The figure advanced, clad in shimmering robes and a white mask devoid of expression.

Despite the addition of a red stone brooding at its brow, Sulaiman knew the loathsome porcelain face.

“Fall back,” he urged the others as his blade ignited.

The masked figure responded by thrusting its slender arm toward Astlin. She cried out as a wave of sallow light washed over her.

Centuries of war had honed Sulaiman’s vigilance. He heard rushing footsteps and rounded to see Amargos lunge from behind a metal crate and thrust his grey scimitar at Tefler.

Sulaiman threw himself between the greycloak and the turncoat, but Amargos loosed golden light whose chill snuffed Sulaiman’s blade. Amargos was prepared; Sulaiman caught off guard, and the blow meant for Tefler struck his rescuer. Three feet of icy steel plunged through Sulaiman’s breast and drove him to his knees.

A scowl twisted Amargos’ face. “One heathen priest’s as good as another. Now, shall I take your hands, your eyes, or…” The scowl became a grin as Amargos set both hands on his sword’s hilt.

Sulaiman braced himself for the twist of the blade, but what came instead proved far worse. Indigo light limned the scimitar, freezing the path of the wound. Sulaiman gritted his teeth and refused to cry out—until an even colder emanation traveled down the blade, through his flesh, and into his soul.

Amargos spoke to his sword. “It’s a shame, my loyal brethren, to spend you on this wretch.” He fixed his dark eyes on Sulaiman. “But this ship has ample raw material for shades.”

One shade flowed in after another, till Sulaiman felt the line that tethered him to the world harden and fracture.

The hangar dissolved in white light. The warmth flooding into Sulaiman’s body more than compensated him for the loss of his vision.

“He IS NOT as good as me!” Tefler said.

The return of sight showed Tefler standing nearby, the hand that had loosed the Well’s light still outstretched. Amargos staggered back, covering his eyes and groaning with rage.

Sulaiman tried to stand, but the sword embedded in his chest and the shades that infested his soul kept him on his knees.

Luckily, help was already charging in.

“You—” was all Amargos could say before Cook drove a stout fist into the pit of his stomach. The greycloak captain’s breath came in wheezing gulps as he strove to fend off a hail of artful blows.

“We just want to be left alone,” Cook said, throwing a kick that would have split logs.

Amargos blocked and answered with a punch that failed to check his foe.

“If Shaiel wants to tell us how to live,” said Cook, “he should send a better mouthpiece than you!”

With a wordless cry, Amargos threw his whole body into a punch. Cook turned it aside, grabbed the back of the greycloak’s head, and forced it down as his knee crashed into Amargos’ face. Sulaiman lacked the strength to curb his pleasure when Amargos toppled onto the deck with blood streaming from his mouth.

Tefler crouched down beside Sulaiman. “You were right about celebration being premature.”

Sulaiman gestured to the hilt of the scimitar jutting from his chest. “Remove the blade.”

“I think we’re supposed to leave it in,” Tefler said. “Pulling it out could—”

Amargos’ wet cackling interrupted. “Mind your elders, apostate! The shades have done their work. Another cut will end him.”

Sulaiman called down the light of the Well. The darkness in his soul obstructed its flow like grime on a windowpane, but the prana that shone through subdued the shades enough for him to stand.

“Thank you for the warning,” he said to Amargos, whose bloody mouth gaped. “I shall take care to heed it.”

“Enough posturing,” Cook told Sulaiman. “Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

Sulaiman felt the shades massing against the light. Holding them back would mean channeling prana into his soul more or less constantly; depriving him of his other priestly gifts.

No matter. I need only endure till the work is done.

Tefler pointed toward the now shuttered door. “What about them?”

In his distress, Sulaiman had all but forgotten the two beings that now stood facing each other across the hangar. He supposed his lapse could be forgiven; neither the fire souldancer nor the masked creature retained a full measure of humanity.

As if confirming his judgment, the masked thing said, “Our congress is unmeet for your ears. Yet take no offense! Here is the sovereign cure for your ills.”

Whatever foul maw the mask hid spewed forth a yellow-green miasma. The stench of the onrushing torrent burned Sulaiman’s nose. Sweat moistened his hands and brow as he realized the hopelessness of escape.

Astlin swept her arm upward. A cloud of fire surrounded Sulaiman, Tefler, and Cook. The flames shielded them from the acrid vapor and burned away Sulaiman’s despair.

Amargos’ screams showed that he lacked the same protection. Sulaiman watched through a red-orange veil as the caustic miasma annihilated the greycloak captain.

Astlin let the fire subside. “You’re next,” she told the masked thing.

“No need for threats,” it chided. “And no need for pretense.”

The golden robe slid to the deck like a discarded snakeskin. In his shock, Sulaiman thought he saw double. The figure under the robe was Astlin’s mirror image, save for its longer hair and shorter dress.

That is not Vaun Mordechai.

“Please,” Astlin said, her voice hitching, “no.”

The creature doffed its hateful mask, revealing a pallid face somewhat older and sharper than Astlin’s. Empty pits darker than hell’s dungeons stared from its head in place of eyes.

“You don’t bargain with Shaiel’s Will,” it said with less formality but no greater warmth.

“Who is she?” asked Cook.

Astlin turned a glaring eye on her friends. “Clear out.
Now
!”

“I will not leave you to this creature’s wiles,” said Sulaiman, “not if I judge its nature rightly.”

The Will of Shaiel smiled. “Got a problem with women?”

“That shape is but a fair guise for cold rotted filth.”

“Hello?” Sulaiman heard Zan’s disembodied voice. Judging by Cook and Tefler’s furrowed brows, so did they. “You’re supposed to come to the bridge.”

“We’re busy!” Tefler spoke below a whisper, but Sulaiman heard him clearly.

Zan is using the ship’s eyes to lay a sending upon us.

“That thing’s not human,” said Zan. “Only a priest can save us from a kost.”

The three men exchanged skeptical looks.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Tefler told Zan. “Astlin’s some kind of demigod now. She killed Hazeroth; a kost should be no problem.”

“It’s too strong for the gold lady,” said Zan. “But prana is stronger than fire.”

Tefler turned to Cook. “Get Sulaiman some help. I’ll head up to the bridge on the off chance Zan knows what he’s talking about.”

“Oh,” Zan chimed in again, “Watch out for the greycloaks who escaped from the brig.”

Cook rolled his eyes. “Thanks, buddy.” He started toward the exit and motioned for Sulaiman to follow. Tefler ran ahead.

Sulaiman cast a final look at Astlin and left her to face Shaiel’s Will alone.

“This is more like it,” something cold and ancient said in Neriad’s voice when Astlin’s friends had gone. “We can have a nice family chat—unless you still want to fry me.”

Numbness sapped Astlin’s will. Seeing Neriad standing pale and eyeless on the deck of a ship docked in a giant tree tempted her to believe that all her years of torment up to that moment had been a freakish nightmare.

I’m lying in bed, tossing and turning. Any second now the real Neriad will come and wake me up.

Neriad’s eyebrow arched. “You always space out like that when you’re worried. Feel like sharing?”

Could it really be Neriad? Astlin hadn’t seen her in decades—except in the illusion she’d made for…

Xander
. Astlin remembered the strange, endearing quality of his speech; the soothing calm of his presence, and knew she wasn’t dreaming.

“Are you really my sister?”

Neriad’s mouth spoke. “I’m no less who I am than you are.”

“Stop weaseling. What are you?”

The thing wearing Neriad’s skin crossed her arms and stepped closer. “Your reflection in a gold mirror. We’re both creatures of warring gods. Thera ditched you, but Shaiel welcomes us both.”

Anger burned away Astlin’s numbness. “Shaiel made you like this?”

“No more than Thera put the Fire in you. Shaiel freed me from death and put me in charge of his empire.”

“Free from death?” Astlin said, “You look like a corpse!”

Neriad’s lip turned upward. “Living and dead aren’t the only options. After you left, I met someone who’s neither. We’re very intimate now. It’s funny; he used to work for the ones who took you.”

The ruby on the mask in Neriad’s hand glimmered, though the light hadn’t changed. “Now we serve Shaiel.”