Game of Souls (6 page)

P
ower in Blood

C
ount Cardiff watched his son leave. When the door clicked shut behind the boy, he stood, strode across the lush carpets, and peered out the closed windows. To his left and right the Ten Hills and their individual mansions spread before him, each one several miles apart. They circled the temples dedicated to the Dominion, and the soaring, granite, limestone, brick and mortar structure of the Grey Fist, the old king’s palace. Engineers and melders had built each mansion upon man-made inclines several hundred feet high and leveled off at the apexes. Below the counts’ homes were Kasandar’s minor noble houses, each a villa in its own right. As spectacular as the view of the lighted spiderweb of streets and edifices here in the noble district was, the Golden Spires adopted by King Jemare for his new home shamed them all. Their glow dominated the skyline to the east.

Ainslen ground his teeth. He’d climbed from armsman, to soldier, to King’s Blade, to a member of King Tolquan’s court before Jemare, then a count, took the man’s head and his crown. That was the way of succession, the way of the game. Futures were decided not only through politics, but also by might, blood, and violence. Ainslen himself had killed his own father to assume the rule of Mandrigal Hill. But he was a count, when he should be king. Unless he drastically increased his position and power far beyond what he now possessed, he too would die to a dagger, poison, an arrow, or a sword, long before he grew grey or held the title he so richly deserved.

Turning away from the window, he inhaled deeply, savoring the ginger spice scent of the incense he burned. The smoke chased the many mosquitoes from their homes in the two buckets of stagnant water beneath the rear windows, leading them toward the door where the wisps lessened. Tempted as he was to savor what they’d gorged themselves on, he let the insects be for now. He would have time enough to enjoy them in privacy.

“So, what do you think, Shaz?” Count Cardiff focused on the shadows near the largest bookshelf across the room.

The shadows shifted slightly, taking on a solid form. If he chose to strain his eyes, he would be able to see the man hidden there before he became visible to the naked eye. But he chose to conserve his energy instead. Plus, he preferred to keep his abilities as a surprise. A precaution should Shaz change allegiance one day. With his knack for determining a person’s strengths and weaknesses, the assassin was too dangerous to ever trust completely. Ainslen smirked. Betting on Shaz’s loyalty was like putting a wounded deer in front of a wolf and expecting the beast not to attack. It was a losing proposition. But the man had his uses, some of them indispensable for the moment.

Shaz stepped from the shadows like a black cloak unfurling. The act made Ainslen suppress a sigh. Always one with a flair for the dramatic, Shaz bowed, dark hair spilling from the hood’s edges. When he raised his head to meet Ainslen’s gaze, the assassin’s eyes glinted in the dark.

“Enough already,” Ainslen said through clenched teeth. “If I wanted a performance, I’d send for Felius. Now, answer my question.”

Shaz made a sweeping bow. “As you wish, your lordship.” He threw back his hood to reveal his scarred face and drooping eye. The other eye carried the acute slant attributed to Marishmen. “The boy was lying.”

“Well, I knew that already.”

“Did you also know he’s grown stronger? Much stronger?”

Ainslen pressed his lips in a tight line. His siphoning hadn’t indicated any such change in Winslow.

“Ah,” Shaz said, “so your little insects haven’t made you aware of the change.”

This time, Ainslen barely managed to hide any hint of surprise at Shaz’s deduction, keeping his expression flat. Shaz’s knowledge of the mosquitoes was troubling and would have to be dealt with in due course. For now, he needed to discover exactly how much Winslow had developed. “Do not worry your little head over them. Tell me what you saw.”

“Very well. His essence has collected in amounts to match someone three times his age who have never tapped into its depths.” Shaz clasped his hands. “His
sintu
is thick enough that if he knew how, he could tell when a person near him touches their own energy. By the look of things, he’ll only become more powerful. Maybe enough to rival his brother.”

The underlying tone and the way Shaz eyed him gave the count pause. The assassin was too smart for his own good. Out of habit, Ainslen glanced at the picture hanging near the hearth.

Marjorie.
The thought of his wife sent a shiver through his body. Easing his eyes closed, he inhaled deeply to calm himself. Far’an Senjin was unforgiving, but to have the light she’d brought to his life cut short by a former King’s Blade was inexcusable. Ever since that day, he’d sworn vengeance. And he would have it. The moment was so close he could almost taste it.

In the past, his days were torn between regret for losing her and what he’d gained. Too bad Kenslen died so young, his body and mind too fragile.

The count sifted through Shaz’s words. Winslow’s development might mean he couldn’t touch the boy’s soul without his knowledge. A more than worrying predicament.

“Tell me, Shaz, is there anything you do not see?”

“If I missed much, I wouldn’t be such a coveted man.”

The smug tilt to Shaz’s lips spoke of the Marishman’s arrogance. It was his flaw. Although not of noble birth, Shaz was so absorbed in the game, so wrapped up in the many ways his employers used him, that he thought he could match wits and blades with anyone. Such a belief would get him killed one day. However, today was not that day.

“I need you to keep an eye on Winslow. Find out as much as you can about this boy he met.” Ainslen had always suspected there would be others like his son. Not encountering any since the woman they discovered during the Night of Blades hadn’t convinced him they were nonexistent. The absence made him more wary.

“Yes, your lordship.”

“Now, what news from Antelen Hill?”

“Count Rostlin’s been mustering as much funds as he can. He’s sent traders all the way to Thelusia, Marissinia, and back. He’s also garnered a partnership, or at least the promise of one, with House Humel and House Keneshin.”

Ainslen nodded as he contemplated the situation. “So he’s gathered quite a force.”

“Yes, apparently even Cardinton was interested for a time.”

“Really? What happened?”

Shaz shrugged. “My people don’t know for sure, but it seems Cardinton wasn’t overly impressed when he visited.”

Ainslen tilted his head, frowning. “Cardinton is more interested in soul than any offer of a position beside whomever wins come Succession Day. For a moment, I was worried that Kesta had some poor bastards stashed away or had completed a raid.” He paused, scratching at his chin. “Still let’s not overlook any possibilities. The sooner I make certain Shenen has no moves left but to keep his word, the better. I can sway Rostlin soon after. The others will follow.”

First, he would need to retrieve his prize. Along the way he’d discover this boy’s identity and exactly what threat, if any, the Consortium posed. He smiled. “Thank you, Shaz. You may leave now. Oh, and before you follow my son, visit High Priest Jarod. Tell him I have a need for his services.”

With a flourish, Shaz bowed and strode from the room.

After one last look around the room to ensure all was in place, Ainslen put on his horn-rimmed glasses, gathered his cloak at the door, and threw it over his shoulders. The time had come to pay his respects to King Jemare and arrange for Winslow’s apprenticeship.

A mosquito buzzed by him, its sac laden with blood. A faint glow surrounded the insect. Grinning, he snatched it from the air and popped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes and waited for the euphoria.

The Golden Spires stretched like gilded needles piercing the clear night sky, their forms stark against the huge silver disc that was Antelen. On nights like this when the moon was at its fullest, the king’s home was a sight to behold. The ten towers were all a part of one building dedicated to the Dominion. Built by Marish engineers, each one a melder capable of placing a piece of their souls into an object to strengthen it, they were a combination of granite, quartz, and polished steel with precious metals worked in. The skill employed by the engineers was originally said to have belonged to the ebony-skinned Thelusians, but getting a Thelusian to work as a common laborer was like trying to catch the wind in one’s hand. They refused to build for any but their own people, and warred with the slant-eyed Marishmen centuries ago over what they saw as stolen abilities.

Murder holes dotted the bulwark around the massive gate and portcullis that served as the entrance into the grounds. A guard acknowledged Ainslen with fist to heart as he passed through. Ainslen was the only one seeking passage; all other visitors having been turned away for the day. A cool wind carried the sounds of the ever-vigilant archers on their rounds atop the walls.

The count strode down the main causeway, which split off into a dozen other avenues. Expansive courtyards, larger than most farmers’ fields, surrounded the towers and its shining walls. Paved with flagstones and interconnected by colonnades, all but four yards were practice areas for the King’s Blades. Beautiful, manicured gardens, gurgling fountains, and exquisite sculptures occupied those four. Each statue was a gift from a kingdom within the Kasinian Empire.

Clad in leather armor, the few Blades who were visible stood guard along one colonnade or another or at the entrances to various courtyards. Soldiers in red and blue uniforms patrolled the grounds. The sounds of training echoed from the other areas that were hidden by walls and columns. Morning, noon, or night mattered not when it came to the art of fighting.

Ainslen knew better than to think his arrival had gone unannounced. As if reading his thoughts, one of King Jemare’s personal attendants, dressed in all gold, hurried down the stairs that led into the spires’ pristine corridors.

“The king bids you a warm welcome, Count Cardiff,” the servant said, bobbing his head. “He awaits you in the Mandrigal Wing. If you will follow me?”

“Lead on.”

As they passed through the halls with their paneled wood ceilings, walls sprinkled with precious metals, murals, paintings, and various hangings, Ainslen contemplated his visit. He and Jemare had been friends back when they were both armsmen at the start of King Tolquan’s rule. Their competition began then, lasting until they both became Blades, and then Jemare earned the title of count. But as Jemare’s star had continued to rise with his melding skills and the victories he secured for the empire, Ainslen had remained a Blade. When Jemare ascended to the throne, and Ainslen saved him from the spirit-like Heleganese assassins, they had enjoyed another spurt of close friendship for a brief time. That last had come at the cost of Ainslen taking Mandrigal Hill from his father who had sent the assassins.

The price only grew. Ever since Marjorie’s death and the discoveries he made afterward, Ainslen had chosen to keep himself apart from the king and most of his affairs. He still attended the balls and paid better tribute than most to ensure he remained in Jemare’s good graces.

In all that, he had no need to ask for much from Jemare. He touched the king’s honor badge where it hung from a string around his neck, hidden by his clothes. Not even to use the special authority granted to him by saving Jemare’s life. But now Winslow had forced his hand. Of course Jemare would not deny his request, but having to approach him annoyed Ainslen.

Two Blades stood at attention inside the door, their eyes ever vigilant. They said nothing as he entered the Mandrigal Wing with its multitude of windows spanning up the spire, the twinkle of celestial bodies a black and silver tapestry above. Mirrors reflected and increased the moon’s luminance in silver swaths. The sweet perfume of flowers blooming in the many gardens filled the air. Water bubbled from several fountains.

At the room’s center, in a halo of moonbeams as if he were sent from Antelen herself, was King Jemare. He was a large man, all boulder-sized shoulders and carved stone for a chest. His immaculate silver coat with gold scrollwork down the side made him appear almost like a diamond held up to the light. With his head bent in prayer, neat silver braids falling down his back, one could be mistaken into thinking the king was not already aware of Ainslen’s presence. Until Jemare lifted his head, regarding Ainslen with piercing grey eyes before beckoning him forward.

Ainslen took a deep breath and set off down the flagstoned walkway. Not once did he avert his gaze. Jemare was wary of anyone who could not look him in the eye.

“It’s good to see you again, Ainslen.” Jemare gave him a welcoming smile.

Ainslen bowed from the waist. “Same, sire.”

“None of that here.” Jemare stepped forward and clasped his forearm. “Walk with me.” The king released him and began to stride down the path between the gardens. “I find it refreshing how this wing was created for the sun but serves almost as good a purpose for the moon. It reminds me that one can find unexpected uses out of situations. We have been through much together, but these last few years you have kept yourself apart. It worries me sometimes.”