Game of Souls (25 page)

R
evelations

“I
can see the doubt and a host of other emotions flashing across your faces,” Keshka said. “You have questions, no doubt, but first, let me tell you how this came to be.”

Too numb to offer any argument or sort the muddle racing through his mind, Winslow nodded. In an effort to clear his head he sucked in a breath. Filled with wood rot and some animal’s droppings, the forests’ odors lent some sense of normalcy. Although early evening, meager light penetrated the green canopy, creating patches of shadow and darkness that made him feel as if something watched them from among the statuesque trunks. When his gaze roved to Keedar, his friend’s crestfallen face was a far cry from his normal confidence.

“Let’s head on to my place as we talk.” Keshka peered into the trees as if he felt the same uneasiness Winslow experienced before he spun on his heels and strode through fallen leaves.

As they followed Keshka, branches clicked against each other and leaves rustled. Spurred on by the wind’s moans, the noise commingled with forest critters’ chatter. In the distance, hounds bayed. Winslow tensed.

“No need to worry about those,” Keshka said. “Even if someone believes you survived that leap, the Kasinians will think three times before crossing into Kheridisia uninvited. Especially out here in the less civilized areas.”

“Um, Uncle Keshka, can you tell us …” Keedar’s voice trailed off.

“Ah, yes, your story. Or at least your mother’s story. Well, first, you know her as Lys. For me, and many others, she will always be Queen Elysse. For those who hated her and wanted her dead, she will be Elysse the Temptress, Elysse the Princeslayer, or some such.”

Winslow gasped. He’d read so many stories about the woman. Not only in Count Cardiff’s research books on Dracodar, but in several annals within the Grand Library. The least of her atrocities had been killing King Jemare’s son at the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows. Far worse was the insurrection sparked by her, primarily among the commoners. She’d been rumored to seduce other ranking nobles in several kingdoms, convincing them to war with Kasandar over the years. Kheridisia was one such. He’d seen more than one painting or aged wanted pamphlet referring to her. Her beauty was breathtaking, her eyes an amber so deep he pictured her mesmerizing those foolish enough to stare into them.

Such a person, a criminal who cared little for life, whom the books portrayed to follow only her greed, could not be his mother. One glance at Keedar’s face, at his pursed lips, and the recognition in his eyes, told Winslow his friend believed. Winslow refused to accept it.

“Next, you’ll tell us she’s a Dracodar too,” he spat. “A murderer such as she could never be my mother.”

Keshka stopped. He didn’t turn, but he became deathly still. “I will allow such an insult only once, nephew.”

His mouth drying, Winslow kept his other thoughts to himself.

“Why Queen Elysse?” Keedar asked.

“Oh,” Keshka strode ahead once more, “she was not an actual ruler in a kingdom, but for those of us who she helped become a people again, she was our queen. Without her and other women like her, we would be a lot less than we are today, Perhaps even wiped from Mareshna completely.”

Curiosity got the better of Winslow. “How so?”

“They gave of themselves, taking more than one husband, more than one mate, in order to revive our race.”

Great. Not only is my mother a murderer but she’s also a slut.
Winslow bit his tongue.

“It’s why I never begrudged her relationship with Delisar. It’s more than I can say for how my brother felt of me or anyone else Elysse found worthy.”

“H-How can you act as if what she did was nothing,” Winslow blurted.

“Because she had a greater purpose. I understood that. So did many others. Some didn’t. You see her ability for seduction meant they fell hopelessly in love.”

“And you weren’t?” Keedar stared at Keshka’s back.

Winslow wondered what emotions had to be tumbling through Keedar’s head.
Maybe the same as I: confused, hurt, not wanting to believe but knowing this old man has no reason to lie.

“Make no mistake, son, I loved your mother with every fiber of my being. However, some things in life are bigger than the individual, bigger than one group of people. Survival is one such. I learned to temper my feelings and see what she needed to do.”

“How did I end up with Count Cardiff?” Winslow wanted the answer to that more than anything. If he was to believe Delisar was his father, he had to understand.

Keshka’s shoulders slumped visibly as he walked. The old man sighed. “The Hills had spies among us.”

“Like they do now,” Keedar interrupted. “It’s why you mentioned the Sorrows as you did.”

Keshka nodded. “Anyway, Elysse gave an order that no one was to interfere with the nobles when they played at Far’an Senjin, sending their children into the Smear for the Trial of Bravery. Someone disobeyed, going after Count Cardiff’s real son, Kenslen. His wife, Marjorie, intervened and was killed. To this day I don’t believe one of us was responsible, but that matters not.” Keshka stopped and faced Winslow. “That is when Ainslen took you. Don’t you remember?”

Frowning, Winslow struggled to find such a memory, one of a home other than with Count Cardiff or his wet nurse. He shook his head.

Keshka squinted, and then cocked his head to one side. “I see. Someone has tampered with your soul, suppressing your memories. We will have to do something about that when we get a chance.” He nodded absently to himself before continuing to lead the way.

The idea of someone being able to tamper with his mind in such a manner was difficult for Winslow to fathom. But if Keshka said it was possible, then it must be.

“Why was I chosen?”

“The nobles used the blame placed on the guilds as an excuse to scour the Smear in an attempt to strengthen one noble house or another with souls.”

“What?” Winslow grimaced. “I don’t understand.”

“A shame that you don’t. There’s a reason it’s called the Game of Souls. The nobility use any methods they can to increase their soul, strengthen their magic. The best way is through capturing and killing a Dracodar, ingesting their parts, as you saw from the auction. Another method is by stockpiling those thought to be descended from Dracodar bloodline, capture them young enough and train them to do their bidding. The strongest are raised as nobles so they can infuse their power into the houses. They do this in addition to the Day of Accolades.”

“B-But, that means …” Winslow found what he was hearing difficult to fathom.

“Yes. The nobility are child thieves. Babies of the wrong coloring, who couldn’t easily pass for nobles are trained to become the King’s Blades. The vaunted Hills are no better than the Smear, than the dregs as they like to call us. The family lines are all intermingled.”

As absurd as the idea might have sounded, it made sense to Winslow. The story explained Count Cardiff’s obsession with the Dracodar, his need to control or destroy the guilds. It also told why those adept in Far’an Senjin were held in high esteem. People ruled by power. One way to maintain such a stranglehold was through suppressing any threat. What better way than to steal from those who might be able to overthrow you? The concept wasn’t new. Various kingdoms employed similar tactics throughout history, raping and taking the women of those they conquered as their own. It made it harder to fight back when allegiances to family or race were intertwined.

Winslow shook his head. “How did they get away with this?”

“Easily,” Keedar said. “Before I saved you several times, you saw us as nothing but dregs, lower than dogs. Every noble thinks the same way. Why would they care what happens to us if it benefits them? In their eyes, it’s no different to having peasants or slaves.”

Winslow nodded with each point made. Certainly a time existed when those sentiments were his. He was glad Keedar said ‘they’ at the end. “Can anyone manage to stop them?”

“Elysse worked for over a century of her life to undermine much of what’s been done.” Keshka made his way around a white ash that dwarfed all the others, the moss and vines from its branches touching the ground. “If Delisar had been a bit more patient, we would have reaped the fruits of your mother’s labors. Now, things will be a lot harder, if not impossible.”

“You are speaking of overthrowing King Jemare and the Hills.” Winslow eyed the tree. Not being able to see what its mass hid and memories of the derin attack should have made him fearful. Instead, he experienced a strange calmness. “I saw what happened last night, how many they have on their side. It would take a comparable army to accomplish such a feat.”

“Battles aren’t always decided by numbers. Tactics and strength matter more. Not strength in military might either, but the belief, the need, the determination to win out, knowing that defeat means the end of everything you know, the end of your people.” The confidence in Keshka’s voice resonated with Winslow.

“How many melders do you have?”

Keshka stopped and faced them. His eyes glinted, and a smile hung at the corner of his lips. “Not simply melders but those like yourself who have a Dracodar’s pure blood flowing through their veins. It’s why Cardiff latched onto you. He saw it within you, and he suspected the same from others in the Smear. It might have been why he allowed you into the Smear in the first place: to see what you would draw out.” He glanced toward Keedar who stood in silence but whose expression said he knew what the old man was saying. “And you brought him another. He will not stop now. That’s for sure.”

‘A Dracodar’s pure blood flowing through their veins.’
The words replayed in Winslow’s head as he held his arms out and turned them palm upward, analyzing himself. Count Cardiff’s books and notes made sense now, and so did the transfusions. For the first time, he believed the stories about ingesting Dracodar blood and flesh.

Count Cardiff had used him on more than one occasion to increase his own power in soul magic.

P
ower In Chains

“H
ave you located them?” King Ainslen Cardiff lounged on the Soul Throne, regarding Shaz who was on one knee before him. Although the throne room had been cleaned, he still caught the faint whiff of blood. The scent of ginger spice from incense around the room overrode it for the most part.

Shaz kept his head down. “No, sire.”

Ainslen leaned forward, tapping into his stored soul. “Do not lie to me.”

“I—” Shaz began, head snapping up, defiance in his eyes. He frowned a moment later. “Sorry, sire. I did find them, but they escaped.”

Ainslen ground his teeth. It was a good thing he’d decided to hold this audience in private. Otherwise he might have needed to kill Shaz. It was not yet time to be rid of such a useful tool. “How?”

After a brief pause, Shaz muttered, “They leaped from the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows.”

“What?”

Shaz cleared his throat. “They leaped from the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows.”

Squinting, Ainslen peered at Shaz. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. Shaz’s words made no sense, but they held truth. Such an act meant … “They are dead, then? I thought you said they escaped?”

“Someone saved them. A man.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

Ainslen contemplated the considerable power required to save someone who made such a jump. Not someone but two people. His heart sped up at the prospect. “We shall leave them be for now. Before I tackle the issue they and the Kheridisians pose, I must secure my strength here.”

“As you say, sire.”

“What news of my enemies?”

“Cardinton, Melinden, and Adelfried escaped. Rostlin, Doran, and Poronil are dead.”

“And Queen—I mean, and Terestere?” He inhaled slowly with the memory of the woman, a longing for her easing through him.

“No sign of her.”

“Tell me we have at least captured the majority of what remains of the guilds and secured the folk capable of fighting in the Smear.”

Shaz stared at him with a straight face. “We have at least—”

With a release of soul to rival a massive hammer slamming against a wall, Ainslen smashed Shaz in the chest, sending him tumbling across the floor. A barely audible grunt left the assassin’s lips.

“This isn’t the time for foolish jests,” Ainslen warned, “unless you would rather be dead.”

Groaning, Shaz crawled onto his knees. “Sorry, sire.”

“See yourself to a wiseman once we’re finished here. Now, the guilds and the dregs, tell me again.”

Shaz took a few moments, breaths coming in wheezing gasps before he answered. “The guilds have been brought under control, their leaders dead or captured.” He took a long pause.

“Go on.”

“The majority of the dregs are gone. They disappeared into the sewers near Pauper’s Circle. We have soldiers trying to root them out, but it has been costly. We lose men by the hundreds.”

Ainslen growled under his breath. “Pull our men out for now. I shall send for some Marish trackers and a Farlander complement to deal with them.” He considered the issue of the counts. “Disband whatever is left of the houses that stood against me. Kill their kin who show the slightest opposition. Any young enough, begin their training as Blades.” That was a start. “On your way out, have Lestere, Shenen, and Fiorenta attend me.”

“Yes, sire. Should I send for Sorinya and a squad of Blades?” Shaz still winced whenever he spoke.

“No, no need. This, I need to do on my own.”

When Shaz left, Ainslen allowed his mind to drift to whom might have saved Winslow and the Giorin boy. Again, that sense of excitement thrummed through him. The thought made him regard the three metallic containers to his left. He’d made sure to open them for a short time when Seligula departed.

The three counts entered soon after. Lestere of House Keneshin was a bear of a man, pale as a corpse. He stayed indoors or dressed in layered clothing as he was now in an attempt to make his complexion match those of the most ancient royal lines. He also kept his hair and beard long and neatly braided for the same reason. Fiorenta, the brains behind the secretive House Humel, was Lestere’s opposite: a waif of a man, balding, face pockmarked. Built like a man half his age, Shenen was his usual resplendent self, his expression betraying little. The other two men’s gazes constantly shifted to the containers. The three got down on one knee before Ainslen, declaring their service in one voice.

“Rise, my friends.”

They graced him with smiles, not allowing their eyes to waver. Lestere dabbed at his forehead with a silk handkerchief.

“To what do we owe the honor, sire?” asked Count Shenen.

Ainslen gestured around him. “I owe this to you three as much as I owe it to my allies. Without you, it would not have been possible.”

They nodded.

“In return, as promised, these are your rewards.” He pointed to the containers.

Fiorenta and Lestere glanced over. One dabbed at his forehead while the other licked his thin lips. Shenen’s gaze remained on the king.

“You must have many questions and doubts when it comes to the Farlanders and myself. I also know what must run through your minds as you consider the soul you are about to gain.” Ainslen smiled but did not allow it to reach his eyes. “In respect to the curious nature men like ourselves tend to have, I will grant each of you a duel with me after you have taken your gifts. Not to the death, mind you. To show that even with your newly acquired power, I’m still beyond each of you.” He regarded Count Shenen then, keeping his gaze expressionless. “Leroi, we shall begin with you. Fiorenta and Lestere, you may leave now. After you are outside, you can choose which of you faces me next.”

The two counts bowed and hurried away. King Ainslen did not spare them as much as a glance.

Leroi approached the containers, running his hands longingly on the exterior of one. “I have been anticipating this day. When I heard an assassin of mine had attacked your son, I had wondered if one of them had taken matters with my daughter into their own hands. Until I gave it some thought as to how you might keep Kesta Rostlin off balance. It was a brilliant move, making it look as if I were your enemy, and then giving him a reason why I would need to join you at the same time. But this … this might be the first mistake you’ve made.”

“I think not,” Ainslen said. “Go ahead, pick one, any one. I shall even give you time to get used to your new strength.”

Mouth forming a curved slit, Leroi glanced at Ainslen from the corner of his eyes. He flipped open the lid. Soul burst forth.

When Leroi bent to gorge himself and don the Dracodar scales, excited tingles shot up through the king. He would disabuse the counts, and banish any notion that any of them could stand against him. Then he would visit his prize.

Great kings ruled by strength, fear, and respect. For now, the first two would do. The rest would come with time.

The fetid stench of old blood and dead flesh made Ainslen wrinkle his nose. Booted footsteps drowned out the noise from an occasional moan, cry, or desperate prayer. Accompanied by several Blades, he strode along the walkway that spanned from one side of the dungeon to the next. Cells extended to either side of him, atop impossible metal spires. Blackness gaped at him from either side of the walkway. At the door to each cell stood a Blade.

Three guarded the one he wanted. Four more surrounded the square structure, each at a corner, hands on large chains that led through a hole into the cell. Six more men would be inside.

He stopped before the iron door. Even standing outside he could feel the soul emanating from within. It crawled across his skin like a tiny insect. “How has the prisoner been?”

“On his best behavior, sire. Not once has he attempted anything,” said a raven-haired Darshanese who rubbed at his thick, beak of a nose.

“Good. Open it.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed in concentration. A subtle shift came from the magic in the room. Moments later, the Darshanese stepped forward, slid back four bolts, and pulled open the creaking door.

“Wait here,” Ainslen said to his men. He stepped inside, the door closing behind him.

Delisar sat with his legs crossed in the middle of the stone-flagged floor. Manacles of a black metal enclosed his ankles, wrist, and neck. The chain from the one around his neck connected to a large spike in the ceiling. The Blades outside held the ends of the other four chains. Blood encrusted his face, arms, and armor. His hair was matted with it. Where his skin was flayed open, golden scales flecked with red peeked out. His eyes opened slowly. The pupils were convex, snake-like.

Surrounding him at evenly spaced intervals were the six Blades.
Sintu
spilled from them, so thick Ainslen saw it without engaging his magic. A portion of their essences caressed Delisar at major pressure points, inhibiting him from touching his own soul.

“Come to gloat?” Delisar’s voice was hoarse, a fraction of the deep, commanding person who had called out during the auction.

“No.” Ainslen circled him slowly. “I’ve come to inspect a myth, a legend, a dream of mine. Do you realize I have searched for your kind my entire life? My quest to prove you existed consumed me. Then came the Night of Blades, and I knew, I knew for certain that I had been correct.” The king stopped and reached a tentative hand out. When he touched Delisar’s scales, Ainslen shuddered.

“Well, here you have one of us in the flesh. Do with me as you did my wife.”

Ainslen threw back his head and laughed. When he managed to bring his joy under control, the king peered at Delisar’s face. “Not yet. First, I will show you what is to be done to your boys.”

The Consortium leader became deathly still. Ainslen could make out where his soul strained against the barrier and failed. The king chortled.

“Laugh all you like, you don’t have them.” Certainty rose in waves from Delisar.

“Oh? What makes you so sure?”

“I don’t smell them on you.” Delisar tilted his head, for the first time his deep amber eyes staring into Ainslen’s own. “Which means they escaped. Go after them now, and you die.”

King Ainslen shrugged. “You, sir, are correct. Luckily, I won’t have to chase after them. I have you.” He stroked Delisar’s hair before gripping it tight and pulling. “I will milk you for all you’re worth.”

As he spun and left the cell, King Ainslen’s mind reeled. Delisar had confirmed his suspicions. The mess of scales and blood he’d consumed at the man’s home that night after Jemare left had belonged to Elysse the Temptress. The king had stumbled out, overwrought with power after gorging himself. But they had never found Tharkensen.

The idea of capturing the Lightning Blade made him grin. The grin grew into chuckle that became a cackle echoing through the halls. He had the perfect bait.

.