Soulsworn (2 page)

“Then he’s done as you ordered.”

“I also stressed the need for secrecy.”

“Then why … why?” Nerisse’s voice trailed off. The girl shook her head stubbornly. “That could be Uncle Morran and Uncle Hortesh with him.”

“But that isn’t either of them, is it? Or else you would’ve said so already.” Aidah understood her daughter’s reluctance to accept the harsh reality implied by Derega’s disobedience.

“You called, Lady Rostlin?” Lomin asked, the rasp of his voice still disconcerting. A scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his chin and down to his throat. It gave him a permanent grimace as if he’d drank curdled milk and could not get rid of the taste. Beside him was Aran, face more bone than flesh. One, or both of them, stank of sweat and drink.

“Derega has returned … with three other men. I doubt he means well.” Aidah looked out the window. The riders were halfway to the mansion, horses trotting from shadow into lantern light into shadow. The two men moved to the window.

Lomin squinted, pockmarked face highlighted by a sliver of moonlight. “Hells’ Angels, he’s brought melders, strong ones too.”

The man’s profanity, and his concern, received a sideways glance from Aidah. “As the Suicidal Blade that shouldn’t mean much to you,” she said dryly. She’d meant to have a word with him about the reports that he fought with reckless abandon, even against seemingly insurmountable odds, when allowed to take on contracts from the other counts. Kesta had advised her against it, saying,
‘That’s who he is. Changing a Blade’s fighting style is to change his identity. Might as well cut off his balls and make him a wiseman.’

“The stories of Lomin the Suicidal Blade are grossly exaggerated, and are just that … stories. I’ve got a certain fondness for my life. If it were only the melders, then I would take the risk, but that’s Derega the Broken Blade out there, or did you forget?” Lomin was scowling. Aidah arched an eyebrow at the man’s sharp tone. “Sorry, m’lady.” He dipped his head. Lomin had ever been adamant when it came to decorum among Blades. He stared back out the window, lip curled.

“The last thing I could do is forget,” Aidah said. Derega had earned his name several times over as a warrior whose attacks shattered any weapon not crafted of soul. At the moment Lomin had a grip on his weapon’s hilt, a sword of finely crafted steel.

“The three of them would make short work of Aran while Derega fights me. Then it would be my turn to die.”

“And that work would be very short,” Aran said. “I know one of them. A thief named Four Toes. He’s the one to the far right. Almost passed the melder’s test to become a Blade. Nasty piece of business, he is.”

She glanced over at the gaunt-faced man, wondering about his familiarity with such a miscreant. He shrugged. Aidah returned her attention to the riders, who stopped a dozen feet from the mansion’s front door. “Well, if we cannot defeat them, then I will take the girls while you—”

“AIDAH ROSTLIN.” Derega’s voice boomed, carried on the wind.

Aidah’s heart thumped. Derega dismounted. His form cast a long shadow in the lantern light. Cloak, furs, and leathers made the already large man even bigger. The other men remained atop their horses.

“I know you’re there,” Derega called out. Gone was the respectful tone with which he often spoke, replaced by a flat, cold voice. “Make this easy on yourself. Just order Lomin and Aran to bring out the treasures Kesta had delivered here over the past few months. Neither he nor Gaston has any use of them. They’re dead. Slaughtered.”

Those last words repeated in Aidah’s head. They were a kick in the stomach. Derega was lying. He had to be.

“Did you hear me? Your husband and son are dead.”

“No, no, no,” Aidah whispered. “He lies. They’re alive. The Dominion watched over them. They’re alive.” She clung to her faith. Nothing else existed in this moment. Not the girls. Not the men outside. Only the surety that Gaston and Kesta were fine.

“I know you don’t believe me,” Derega continued, “but it’s true. Kesta died fighting for Antelen Hill. Whether his death came at the hands of the Consortium’s dregs, or Jemare’s men, or another one of the counts, no one knows. As for Gaston, they found his corpse at Mandrigal Hill. Some claim that King Ainslen’s men were responsible. They say the king killed him because of the company he’d been keeping with some dreg.”

Aidah squeezed her eyes shut against the warmth trickling down her cheeks. Memories spilled through her head, so real she could touch the faces of her husband and son.

“I don’t wish to hurt you or the girls. You’ve all suffered enough. Just hand over the goods, and we’ll be on our way.”

“You mustn’t give him what he wants, Lady Rostlin,” Lomin said. “If his intentions were as he says, they would’ve brought wagons or carts.”

“They plan to kill us,” Aran added, “as sure as Mandrigal rises in the morning and sets at night, they plan to kill us all.”

Low moans drew Aidah’s attention to the hands gripping her dress. Clara looked up, face contorted. Tears glistened in her eyes, silver like Antelen’s light. The girl was trembling.

“They’re telling the truth, Mama. Papa and Gaston are dead.” The little girl burst into a wail.

Aidah stroked her daughter’s hair. She tried to deny the girl’s words, but her own doubts surfaced. If Kesta still lived he would have come for them already. The admission gouged a piece from her heart even as she fought it.

“Blade Lomin,” Derega called out, “I have no desire to fight you, but I will kill you if you force my hand. That would be a travesty. I know you still feel a sense of duty to the nobility, to the task you were appointed, but your life, like mine, has been a lie. So has it been for most dregs, for most of the Smear. The Order is not what you think it is; they are criminals as bad as any Consortium guild member. If you were only privy to the secrets I possess, secrets known to every noble of high rank, you would understand. I’ve never begged for anything, but I’m begging you now. Walk away.”

“What does he mean?” Lomin watched her, pockmarked forehead wrinkled.

“I don’t know.” Aidah shrugged as she met his gaze and hoped Clara remained silent. The girl sniffled but said nothing. “It seems that I don’t know the man as I once did.” Lomin gave a noncommittal grunt and returned his attention to the window. Tension eased from Aidah’s shoulders.

“So which will it be, Lady Rostlin?” Derega yelled. “Are you going to give me what I want or will you force me to come in there and kill you, Clara, and Nerisse? I’ll start with Nerisse … force you to watch as my men take her.” Behind him, the men laughed.

“Kill Nerisse and Mama?” Clara stopped shaking.

Against her leg Aidah felt a gush of warmth. Her dress billowed out. Gasps escaped the mouths of Lomin, Aran, and Nerisse.

“Kill Mama? Kill Nerisse?” Clara repeated, her voice like tin. “Derega wants to kill Mama and Nerisse?”

When Aidah looked down, she could’ve sworn her daughter’s skin glowed. Something pushed against Aidah, growing in intensity, forcing her to step away from Clara. Lomin and Aran had already backed off several feet. Nerisse held a hand out toward her sister, fighting against the unseen pressure until it shoved her away, the carpet sliding beneath her feet. Chairs and tables toppled over. Glass broke. The curtains whipped aside.

Clara stared out the window. “You will not kill Mama and Nerisse. You will kill each other.” The hollowness in her voice made Aidah shiver.

Derega faced his men, a silhouette in the night. He slowly drew his sword. Antelen’s light reflected from the metal, a silver glint that promised death. White flames sparked to life around his sword, casting eerie shadows across his features.

The men dismounted. They unsheathed their weapons, movements plodding, jerky, uncertain, not the smooth motions of warriors accustomed to combat. They were pale imitations of themselves, wooden dolls in a guiser’s play.

When they fought, Aidah gasped. Theirs were not the strikes, dodges, blocks, and parries that she’d seen when Kesta practiced. The battle was not the dance she knew, but it did not lack for savagery. The men hacked and hewed at each other as if they were lifelong enemies, swords rising and falling mindlessly. Each blow landed, gave a sick, wet, chop. Blood flew, black in the moonlight. Bile rose in Aidah’s throat. As if in fear for their own lives, the horses whinnied and fled.

Derega’s weapon cut through flesh and steel, a seamstress’s blade parting silk. It flashed each time it connected, the light brilliant, white illuminating red. Blows directed toward him stopped at least a foot or more before they connected, striking some unseen surface.

Not a single man cried out despite the wounds inflicted. One warrior lost a leg. He tried to crawl to his target before a sword pierced his skull. Another who lacked an arm still swung with his remaining good one.

Derega was the last man left, wounded but alive. He impaled himself with his sword. The white flames winked out.

When he crumpled to the ground, Clara let out a moan and collapsed. The pressure in the room disappeared. With a cry, Aidah dashed to her daughter’s side.

I
nduction

C
lara’s chest rose and fell in the rhythm of deep sleep. Shadows hid her face. Her skin was cold, clammy to Aidah’s touch, and yet sweat soaked her dress, cast a sheen on her forehead.

“Quick, she needs a wiseman or a chirurgeon,” Aidah cried, voice shrill as she cradled her daughter. “Please, fetch one. Dear Gods, help her, help my baby.” She rocked Clara while muttering prayers.

A lamp sparked to life. Aran stood next to it, face ashen. Lomin stepped up but still maintained a respectable distance. A grimace marred his features. The scar across his throat worked as he swallowed.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Aidah demanded. “Ride to the nearest chantry, get a wiseman.”

“She’ll be fine for the most part,” Lomin said in a shaky voice. Aidah made to speak. “I’ve seen this before. Just needs some rest, m’lady. Lots of it.” He licked his lips and swallowed again. “Hells’ Angels,” he muttered.

To one side, Nerisse stood, staring at her sister, one hand over her mouth in stunned disbelief. Her cheeks glistened wetly.

“How do you know?” Aidah looked down at Clara and brushed aside brown curls. Clara’s face was pasty white rather than its normal olive color. “What happened? What’s wrong with her? And what did you mean by ‘for the most part?’”

“I can tell by her nimbus,” Lomin said, and then seeing the confusion on her face, he added, “It’s the container that holds her soul. We all have one. Around each person it’s like a smoky haze, the stronger the person’s soul, the thicker the haze.”

Aidah squinted at Clara. “I-I can’t see anything around her.” She looked at the rest of them. “Or around any of you for that matter.”

“It takes a person who can at least touch one soul cycle to see a nimbus. A melder’s own can grow from a few inches to several feet. Clara’s is weak, more like a misty breath hovering above her skin. Happens when you can’t control your power.” Lomin appeared as if he wanted to be anywhere but in the room. “Who taught her to meld?”

“Her father.”

“Do you know if it was he who induced her?”

Aidah frowned. “Induced?”

“Forced open her vital points to make more soul cycles available so she can become a melder.”

“People can do that?”

“Masters can. Most folks gifted in soul are cyclers, able to only touch one or two soul cycles, the abilities they use simple effects of a specific cycle, like increased sight or better hearing. Control of the first six cycles and more complex weavings and combinations are what make a person a melder. Abilities like manifesting flames, imitating different materials, or conjuring objects from pure soul are among but a few examples that separate the two.

“Induction was a common enough practice among the wisemen when training us Blades, but the power gained comes with a price. It’s the reason most of us have short life spans, why some of us go mad, or become invalids. The more you meld, the worse the effect … the pressure on the mind, you see. When a melder goes mad there’s only one way to stop them.” Pain reflected in Lomin’s eyes before he looked away.

Aidah understood the implications even if Lomin refused to say them outright. How dare the Blade suggest Kesta would knowingly do something to harm his daughter? And yet she recalled the fear in Kesta’s eyes the night he made them leave. Could his wish for their safety drive him to such desperate measures, to risk their daughter’s sanity, her very life? If he cared that much, why risk it at all? Unless the threat outweighed the risk. “Why … why do you think Kesta, or anyone else, did this to my Clara?”

“She’s too young to …” he paused, shaking his head before continuing, “to do what she has. An experienced, powerful melder could practice for a decade, and even then, success isn’t guaranteed.”

“W-what did she do?” A clammy sensation crawled up Aidah’s back.

“You saw it yourself, m’lady.” Lomin licked his lips again. “She bent their minds. She climbed in their heads and made them kill each other.”

“May the Gods shelter us,” Aran said and drew the Star of the Dominion over his heart, “she’s a Mesmer.”

Lomin nodded. He copied the armsman’s frightened gesture. “What’s worse is that she used the mindbend forcefully. That takes much more power than if she worked with the feelings the men already had, slowly built up their hatred until attacking each other became a part of who they were. A simple nudge would suffice, then. What she did was like making you despise Kesta and Gaston in an instant without you ever having a reason.”

Aidah felt sick. When she was finally able to think, she asked, “This … induction … is there any way to be rid of it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of it being done, but if such a thing were possible, the wisemen would be able to do it,” Lomin said. “Many of them are as strong as any Blade, some more so.”

“Really?”

Lomin smirked. “Did you think the Order gave up all the babies chosen on the Day of Accolades to you nobles? They keep many for themselves, maybe the strongest in soul. Most become wisemen. At worst they’re converted to Blades.”

“I always believed the Order of the Dominion hated the idea of the Dracodar and their descendants alike.” Aidah recalled how the wisemen would preach of the atrocities committed by the extinct, scaled-skin race, blaming them for the Blight that had scoured the world, the disease leaving death, war, and famine in its wake. They used the Dracodar descendants in the Smear as an example. Men and women whose ancestors had once been revered like the Gods themselves were now dregs, the lowest form of civilization in the Kasinian Empire, good only for breeding melders to serve the nobility. Every two years they chose from among that stock on the Day of Accolades. The great houses reaped the benefits, hers included. She glanced at Clara.

“Because a man hates the idea of a thing doesn’t mean he won’t use it for his benefit. Power is power, whatever form it may take,” Lomin said. “You don’t survive as long as the Order has, and possess as much influence as they do, through faith alone. No matter what their wisemen preach.”

Aidah didn’t quite believe his words. She’d grown up on the Dominion’s Word, learning the Order’s Precepts. The wisemen she knew had been beyond reproach and lived their lives by those rules, even if it meant becoming destitute to do so. They dedicated their lives to the Dominion, and in turn the Gods always provided. She couldn’t see them using the Dracodar descendants among the Smear’s dregs to fill their ranks. To them the mere suggestion might be seen as blasphemy.

“I can see your doubts,” Lomin said, “but as a noble you practice Far’an Senjin—the Game of Souls—like it’s breathing. When something becomes the norm you sometimes overlook it. The Order dabbles in the Game as much as the nobility, perhaps even more. There’s a saying among us Blades that the Dracodar might have invented Far’an Senjin, but the Order of the Dominion perfected it.”

Aidah took in Clara’s unconscious form. Her face seemed peaceful. Aidah pictured Clara’s smile as the little girl played with her favorite dolls. The image of those dolls, dancing all on their own, made Aidah grimace. She drew her daughter close and inhaled the fresh scent of the Koe leaf she used to wash the girl’s hair.

A tear trickled from the corner of Aidah’s eyes. She and Kesta had been proud of Clara’s melding. The girl was a prodigy they kept secret, her strength in soul a way to enhance their family line for years to come. That had been their first intention before she became so much more to them, more than just another soul taken on the Day of Accolades as part of the rivalries between houses. Out of a wish to see the old ideal bear fruit, could Kesta have been so foolish as to induce Clara, knowing the eventual consequences? Or had there been more?

She recalled how much he insisted on training Gaston and Nerisse in soul, the things he’d done to see Nerisse grow strong. She shook her head, refusing to believe the idea of him doing something that might harm Clara. That was not the man she married. Was it possible he made the choice because Clara wasn’t truly their blood? Denial again. Clara was their child, regardless of the womb from which she came. They loved her as much as they did Nerisse or Gaston.

She sighed. Brooding over the possibility of Kesta’s involvement in Clara’s illness would only serve to make matters worse. The important thing now was to find help. The closest of the Order’s chantries was in Garangal. She’d planned to visit it anyway, to seek a wiseman’s blessing, offer more prayers to the Dominion. Now, she had even more reason to do so.