Soulsworn (9 page)

“No!” Aidah screamed. “Gods, no!” She tried to run out to Nerisse, but her legs would not work. Self-loathing claimed her, and she berated herself for her weakness, her inability to give her own life for her daughter.

In the midst of chest-wracking sobs, Aidah saw Nerisse’s arm twitch. The fingers formed a fist. Covered in mud, Nerisse pushed up onto her knees, coughing and sputtering. Red leaked from the area of her collarbone.

“Nerisse!” Aidah cried. “No more, please, no more. Come to us.” She held out both arms. “Please.”

No acknowledgement came from Nerisse. The girl fixed her gaze beyond the wagons and spread her arms wide.

Aidah grabbed Clara tight and turned away. She couldn’t watch her daughter die.

Thunder pealed. Once. Twice. Three times.

F
irestick

A
idah summoned the strength to look at Nerisse. Face down, she lay in a pool of muddied water. Red stained the brown. Bile rose in Aidah’s throat, and she spilled her stomach’s contents.

“She did it,” Kitesh exclaimed, peeking around the corner of the wagon. “Thank the Ten Heavens, she did it. She kept his attention until Lomin killed the bastard!”

“But my daughter is still dead.” Aidah’s voice sounded distant to her own ears. She felt numb. Hot tears flowed down her face as she gazed upon Nerisse’s prone form.

“Dead?” Kitesh repeated. “No, m’lady. She’s alive. The bastard missed.”

In stunned disbelief Aidah watched the other three guards splash through mud and water to Nerisse. Emotions washed over her. Fear, worry, and elation all in one.
Alive,
she thought.
She’s alive.
Praise the Dominion.
Dragging Clara behind her, Aidah stumbled toward her older daughter.

By the time she reached Nerisse, the men had rolled the girl onto her back. The shortest of them, Gortans, ripped away strips of cloth from her clothes and worked feverishly to bind the wounds. Nerisse’s face was a pasty white, but she was breathing. Aidah dropped to her knees next to the girl and hugged her. Clara rested her head against Nerisse’s face.

“Are you two trying to finish the job?” Nerisse asked, cracked voice barely audible. “Let the man tend to me.” Aidah could only laugh, and soon the laughter became more tears.

“At least allow us to carry her into the wagon,” Gortans said. “The rain and cold will only cause more problems.”

Aidah savored the feel of her daughter for a moment longer before she stood and eased away. Kitesh and Gortans picked up Nerisse as carefully as they could and headed to the wagon; the others took up positions outside. Once more, Aidah thanked the Dominion, and she and Clara followed the men.

“Everything will be better now, pumpkin,” Aidah said, squeezing Clara’s tiny hand. “The good men will look after your sister.”

Inside the wagon Aidah told Clara to play with her dolls. She then watched as Gortans cut away the fabric around Nerisse’s wounds. Two neat holes marred her pale flesh, blood gushing from them sporadically. Gortans turned her on her side to expose two identical holes. The girl groaned and hissed the entire time.

Aidah cringed but did not look away. The more she saw, the colder she grew. Rain still drummed upon the canvas, and whenever real thunder rumbled she couldn’t help but to flinch. One day, she did not care how long it took, she would make Ainslen regret hurting her family.

“I need to stop the bleeding,” Gortans said, “which means I’ll need a fire and a length of slim metal. However, the risk of infection afterward is great. For that I will need some mesqa, honey, and a few other herbs from my bag.”

Kitesh made his way to the wagon’s rear and ducked his head outside. “Borin, fetch me that flask of mesqa you have.” He returned with the silver container. “Fire is going to be a problem with this rain.” He passed the liquor to Gortans.

A shadow passed across the wagon’s entrance. Aidah tensed, but it turned out to be Lomin.

He climbed inside, clothes soaked and bloodstained. In his hand he carried a strange stick. The slim section, which he kept pointed down, was a tube crafted from gray metal and was perhaps three feet long. The metal joined wood the width and length of a forearm, the wood becoming wider until it ended in a wedged shape. “The Farlander is dead,” he said, voice strained with fatigue.

“Thank you.” Eyes moist, Aidah smiled at the Blade.

He propped the stick in a corner and went to Nerisse’s side. “How do you feel?”

“I’ve been better,” the girl said between clenched teeth.

He turned to Gortans. “What can I do to help?”

“We need a fire so I can cauterize the wound, but with this weather, that’s near impossible unless we start one in here, which comes with its own set of problems.”

“That’s simple enough.” Lomin held up his index finger. The air around the finger glowed, making the digit resemble a white-hot poker. “Will this do?”

“Good,” Gortans said. “Kitesh, fetch my bag, please.” When Kitesh left, Gortans returned his attention to Nerisse. “I’ll have to sterilize the wound with the mesqa. It
will
hurt. Drink some first.” He uncapped the flask and handed it to her.

She lifted her head and put the flask to her mouth, throat working as she swallowed the liquor. Grimacing, she returned it to him and lay back. “That is disgusting.”

“Don’t let Borin hear you say that. Those are fighting words for him.” Gortans replaced the cap. “Bite down on this.” He passed Nerisse a mound of her torn clothing and nodded to Lomin. “Help secure her.” Lomin rested his arm across Nerisse’s thighs and held her hands.

Gortans poured the liquor onto the wounds. Nerisse writhed, muffled moans escaping her mouth as she shook her head from side to side. Seeing her in such pain made Aidah wince. Kitesh returned with the bag just as Gortans finished.

From the leather bag, Gortans removed needles, a few vials, a jar of honey, and catgut. Nerisse was still moaning. He passed her one of the vials. “This is a mixture of Bloodleaf and other herbs. It will dull the pain and eventually put you to sleep, but we can’t wait for that last bit. We must act now to stop the bleeding.” She gave a single nod and downed the contents. “Lomin, it’s your turn. Kitesh, take his place.”

“It’s best if you don’t look,” Lomin said to Nerisse as he hovered above her.

The girl turned her head away. As soon as she did, Lomin’s finger glowed with heat. He shoved it into the wounds in quick succession. Flesh sizzled. Nerisse bucked and cried out, but Kitesh held her down. The reek of burnt flesh filled the wagon.

The instant Lomin stepped back, Gortans set to work, sewing up the holes and applying honey. He worked with practiced efficiency. When he finished, they helped Nerisse onto her stomach, and they repeated the process. In the midst of the second set of stitches, Nerisse spit out the cloth and cried out. She swore at Lomin and Gortans. Lomin helped hold her until Gortans completed his work. Then they carried her to the blankets and furs she used as a bed. Within minutes she was snoring.

The men apologized to Aidah, but she shooed them off and offered her thanks. When the armsmen left, she and Clara lay next to Nerisse.

“She’ll need a good week’s rest,” Lomin said.

“Then we find a safe place and stay there until she’s well.”

“Before today I would’ve agreed, but circumstances have changed.” He produced a sheet of paper and held it out for her to see. It was an artist’s rendering of her and the children. “I found this in the Farlander’s possession. It’s from Ainslen. He wants you and both the girls. He stresses that they must be kept alive. You? He prefers your head.”

The earlier coldness returned. Aidah closed her eyes, allowing the sensation to suffuse her. Thoughts of her children suffering at the hands of the man who killed Kesta and Gaston rose anew. As did the induction he forced upon Clara.

“I refuse to leave her like this. She needs me.” Aidah stared at her daughter’s face.

“Yes, and that means the faster you get to Melanil to secure the Patriarch’s official word and help, the safer she’ll be. Ainslen won’t risk the Patriarch’s wrath, not when it means making an enemy of the full Order.”

“We can wait.”

“And if more than one of these Farlanders should come?” Lomin pointed at the contraption he’d leaned in the corner. “That is the man’s firestick. I’ve never seen its like before, but I understand how it works. Before today I knew of only two weapons capable of cutting through soul: either manifestations created by melders or the legendary blades made from Dracodarian-forged steel, a metal so rare that men would offer a kingdom to procure it.” He nodded toward the firestick. “If we encounter melders wielding several of those, we all die.”

Aidah couldn’t fathom leaving Nerisse in her current state. Neither did she relish the idea of taking Clara on such a trek. If they had been closer to Melanil, the decision would be an easier one. She would never forgive herself if, in her absence, Nerisse suffered more harm. “I can’t. It’s—”

“Well, then I suggest you say your prayers to the Dominion now and make yourself ready. You and your daughters will be dead by the end of the week.”

Images of Clara and Nerisse at Ainslen’s feet spun through Aidah’s head. No matter what happened she could not allow them to suffer such a fate. She regarded her daughters, both of them now sleeping, and remembered how helpless she felt when Nerisse fought.

“If it makes you feel any better, even riding double with Clara will see you in Melanil in four days. There’s another town, Rintenelle, two days travel by wagon. I can stay there in the chantry with Nerisse until I receive word from you. Whatever Blades Terestere has there will help keep us safe. Ainslen’s men would be forced to wait for reinforcements.”

With a heavy sigh, Aidah nodded. Having made a decision, she got up and made preparations to depart.

S
oulless

D
ays later, with Borin and Kitesh as her guards, Aidah entered Melanil, the Chanting City. It had been four days riding as hard as she dared with Clara sitting in front of her. They switched horses once, using the extra ones they’d brought for the final push to Melanil. Sleep had been scant, ruined by nightmares of Casda Esdan, the battlefields of the dead, innumerable colors swirling in the western sky, and the silver-haired lady in blue. Always the silver-haired lady in blue. Her constant presence and the darkness and implications within the nightmares strengthened Aidah’s doubts of any trip to the west.

Clara admitted to having the taker invade her dreams, but unlike before, she was calm when she mentioned him. When Aidah inquired about the change, Clara said Terestere protected her and showed the way to be rid of the man simply by walking through gates. Aidah frowned at that last, but was content to know her daughter had found a method to deal with these dreams.

As Clara rode through the city, the voices of the wisemen in their daily prayers resonated through the air, a melodic deep-throated incantation that originated from the enormous horns atop the Grand Chantry. Aidah praised the Dominion for the safe journey and begged that the Gods had done the same for Lomin and Nerisse. She wove her way through the crowds on cobbled streets and avenues that bypassed the outer city’s warehouses, markets, taverns, and brothels. Many people had the tired, downtrodden appearance of refugees, and others seemed to be simply going about their normal routines. The reek of a city filled to overflowing made her grimace and wish for the open air of the road once more.

Kasinians were most prominent among the crowds, olive complexions and rich garb notable. People made way for the dark-skinned, massive Thelusians with their shin-length jackets that buttoned to the waist, slightly off center. They preferred to travel in pairs as if a single one of them did not already take up enough space for two men. She spotted one or two yellow-toned Marishmen, whose slanted eyes gave the impression that they had a permanent squint.

They rode down an avenue lined with guiser playhalls and brothels as if the two offered the same entertainment. Borin and Kitesh pointed and said things she would rather not hear as they took in the courtesans. Before they grew too explicit she reminded them of Clara’s presence.

At one establishment a bronze-skinned Kheridisian woman, nose and ears adorned with multiple piercings, in clothes so tight they could be a second skin, argued with a wiseman. He had the left side of his head shaven, as did all Clerics. The woman was yelling that her establishment was clean, and the Cleric was demanding to be let in. Two guards, swarthy Farish Islanders by the looks of their tattooed faces, waited behind the wiseman.

Aidah gave a slight smile at the irony of both their situations. With the requirement for them to become eunuchs, and abstain from any sexual activity, how did the wiseman cope with the carnal acts he would see within those doors? What happened if his need was aroused, if it was even possible? Did he rise to the occasion? She blushed with the thought. To receive this assignment he must have angered one of his superiors.

As for the Kheridisian, their kind were considered outcasts, their men forbidden from the Empire’s cities, a reflection of a hostile history. Never mind that Kheridisia itself was considered part of that very same Empire. However, their women were deemed good enough to bed. The best, if you let some men tell it. Their brothels were the most popular throughout the Empire.

Her group reached Celestial Avenue and Aidah was glad for a thinning of the crowds. Cobblestones became square flagstones, trees or columns lined most streets, and mansions were common. Villas and small palaces owned by the Order began past Celestial Avenue, rewards for members who at least attained the rank of a white-sashed Mystic. Beyond them rose the white walls, spires, and rounded domes of the Grand Chantry, the heart of the Dominion’s bosom. Aidah bowed in reverence.

She took a room in the Golden Purse, one of the best establishments along Celestial Avenue, and gave some coin to Kitesh and Borin with instructions to wait outside the door until she returned. Taking a deep breath of air lacking the outer city’s reek, she took Clara and headed to the Grand Chantry. After announcing herself as Countess Aidah Rostlin, and invoking the name of Elder Hamada as instructed by Terestere, the guards at one of the entrances to the great plaza that housed the Grand Chantry allowed her through. A sense of relief set in as she carried Clara up the steps surrounding the temple and in through one of its many doors.

Within the outer alcove a Cleric greeted her, the shaven left side of his head so oiled that it shone. She repeated her name to the wiseman, mentioned the sanctuary granted by Curate Montere, and asked to see Elder Hamada. The Cleric gave her a quick bow before shuffling off down the hall. Aidah relived her preparations for this day while she and Clara waited.

When Elder Hamada Netal strode down the hall in his pristine red and blue robes, Aidah’s eyes narrowed. At least she assumed the man had to be Elder Hamada. He fit Terestere’s description and wore the chain of his station around his neck from which hung two pendants wrought in gold: one, the Star of the Dominion, and the other, Mandrigal, the God of Rebirth, a sun set on a scarlet field. Something different existed about this man with his deep eyes and broad smile that made her want to trust him. His skin was like smooth, polished leather, and for a moment, Aidah thought he might be a Farish Islander, until she noted the lack of tattoos and the ivory piercings that adorned his nose and ears.

“You’re a Kheridisian man,” Aidah said softly.

The Elder looked down at himself, smiled, and said, “So I’ve been told. I hope it’s true. I pray that missing one of my essential parts didn’t make me a woman.” He spoke perfect Kasinian, voice lacking the accent of almost every Kheridisian woman Aidah ever encountered. “Not that being a woman is bad, mind you, quite the opposite, but having a face like a byaga and a bray to match might not be very attractive.”

“S-Sorry, Elder. I-I meant—”

He waved her off. “I know what you meant. I’ve heard it too many times to count. We’re outlawed from the Empire, and yet here we are in its heart. There’s something to be said for the Order and the Dominion as a whole. The Word does not discriminate or separate. All creatures owe their lives to the Gods, and as such, the Order accepts us. At least those of us who are bold enough to venture outside Kheridisia’s forests.”

“Again, I apologize.”

He chuckled. “It’s nothing.” He bent to look in Clara’s face. The girl did not flinch, and returned the stare with mild curiosity. “You must be Clara. I’m honored to meet you.”

“Me too,” Clara said.

Hamada stretched to his full height, head and shoulders above Aidah. “By now Patriarch Corgansetti should be in the Benediction Chambers. Shall we?” He gestured down the hall.

They walked toward the far doorway past murals that depicted the Order’s history, much of them showing the early days of Cortens Kasandar, the wiseman who became king, and was credited with the Empire’s rise. For a moment Aidah wondered what living in those days might have been like. She cringed to think of a time filled with strife and war against the Dracodar.

“I was told to remind you of your goal here today, that of your children’s safety,” Hamada said as they made their way up a flight of steps.

“I don’t need a reminder. Ainslen has done that all on his own with his recent attack on us.” She did not mean to sound scathing, but she could not help her tone.

“Sorry to hear of your hardships. Remember that Antelen is always watching over you, as is the rest of the Dominion.”

“I pray to them daily. Several times. Yet it feels like the help they offer is not enough.”

“The mere fact that you
and
your children still live might speak to the contrary. In the best and the worst of times, always look to them. The method in which the Gods choose to answer your prayers may not always be what you envision, but the answering in itself is important. Take comfort in the rewards you do receive.”

She was on the verge of asking what of Kesta and Gaston, but bit back her words. The Elder was right. Things could be worse, much worse. She nodded, and they climbed the rest of the stairs in silence.

When they gained the Chantry’s uppermost floors Hamada led the way through a large oak door. The chants of wisemen filled the long corridor, emanating from prayer rooms. The smell of incense was thick in the air. They stopped before a golden door with two large ivory handles, the Star of the Dominion etched upon its surface.

“We’re here.” Hamada faced her and then gave a slight bow. “Until we meet again, in this life, or the next.”

She repeated the mantra to him. When she finished, Hamada bowed again, pivoted, and pulled open the door. She caught a whiff of jasmine. Stomach fluttering, she entered the Benediction Chamber with Clara at her side. The door closed behind her.

A lone figure occupied one of two massive, gem-encrusted, high-backed, silver seats set on a dais at the head of the chamber. Looming behind the Patriarch were the ten statues of the Dominion in various forms of dress. Candles burned in ceramic stands around the room and near the statues. Except for a nearby lectern and four small chairs, there was no other furniture. Crossing the space to the dais felt as if it took forever. Giant windowpanes to her left and right gave an expansive view of the Grand Chantry, a citadel unto itself, and the rest of Melanil. She ignored the temptation to gawk at the city, and instead focused on Corgansetti.

Despite his shimmering blue and red robes and makeup added to give him color, Patriarch Corgansetti’s age was obvious. Spots marred his head and lines creased the corners of his eyes. His hands were little more than wrinkled claws with a myriad of dark blue veins spread like a river’s clogged tributaries. Encrusted with diamonds, the ten-pointed, ten-sided Star of the Dominion stood out on the chain around his neck.

“Lady Aidah Rostlin,” Corgansetti said, voice echoing within the room. “And this is your daughter, Clara, is it not?”

She stopped a few feet from the dais. “Yes, it is, Patriarch.”

“Good. And where is the other? Nerisse, I think?”

“She was hurt on our way here, blessed one. As much as I hated to do so, we had to hurry on without her.”

“Yes.” Corgansetti nodded. “The dangers of Far’an Senjin and Succession Day.”

“So then you understand why I seek your help.”

“Well, in all honesty, the Order will grant sanctuary, and has already done so in Garangal, if I’m not mistaken. Although,” he said, pausing, brow wrinkled, “I have yet to receive word from Curate Montere at our chantry there. Regardless,” he added with a wave of his hand, “you’re here now, and as written in our Precepts, you have the Dominion’s protection as long as you remain in Melanil.”

Tension drained from Aidah. The knots in her stomach and back uncoiled. She and the children were finally safe. “Thank you.”

“It is the least the Order can do for the tribute provided by your house.”

All that was left was to discover which of the wisemen could help with Clara’s induction. Perhaps the Patriarch was a good place to start. Smiling, she looked down at Clara. The girl was staring at something to the Patriarch’s left.

“Auntie Teres,” Clara whispered.

Aidah followed her gaze. It was the statue that represented Antelen. The Goddess had silver hair and was clothed in ocean blue. Aidah gasped.

“Ah, yes, awe-inspiring, are they not?”

She barely heard the Patriarch, but couldn’t help her nod. Mind reeling, Aidah considered the chance that the Goddess had been in her dream, dressed in this exact same manner. Was it confirmation that she was in the right place or that they should continue on to Casda Esdan?

“If there is nothing else, then I have another audience that requires the attention of myself and the Matriarch,” Corgansetti said.

Lost in thought, Aidah thanked the man again, and left. Other than the statue’s appearance, another question niggled at her as a Cleric led them through the Grand Chantry. “Clara, why did you think the statue was Auntie Teres?”

“Because it is. That is how Auntie Teres appears in my dreams.”

Frowning, Aidah wondered if Clara’s answer was simply her way of coping with the nightmares.
Could we really be receiving direction from Antelen herself?
The idea seemed absurd as she repeated it, and yet her faith in the Dominion had mostly been unshakable. Although mired in her musings, she noticed they’d taken a different route on their way downstairs. They walked down a long hall with evenly spaced doorways, each door closed. Aidah thought she heard the voices of adults and children. “Which part of the chantry is this?”

“This is our school, where initiates are taught the Word, the Precepts, and all they must know pertaining to the Order,” the Cleric answered.

A gong tolled. One by one the doorways opened. Out filed children of varying races and ages, many as young as Clara.

“The Order’s pride and joy, and its future,” the Cleric said. “It is here that the gifted are brought.”

“Why here?”

“To learn from the masters, to be given a nudge in their training as needed so they develop faster than others.”

Induced. Were these all melders? The crop Terestere had spoken of?
Ice slid down Aidah’s spine. She held Clara’s hand tight and followed the Cleric, praying that no one would stop them from leaving. Fear did not ease from her until she entered the Golden Purse. After ordering food, she went up to their room.

Neither Kitesh nor Borin were at the door. She gritted her teeth, recalling how they’d fawned over the courtesans, and berated herself for giving them coin.
Damned untrained armsmen. I bet if Lomin were here they wouldn’t have disobeyed.

Grumbling under her breath she pulled open the door, ushered Clara inside, and then followed. A rough hand clamped down over her mouth. Aidah’s first instinct was to cry out. Her heart felt as if it wanted to leap from her chest.