Soulsworn (4 page)

“I’m Curate Montere.” His eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments as he regarded her. “Unisse informed me that you have requested sanctuary.”

“Yes, I have.”

“As is custom,” Montere said, tone becoming formal, “by the Precepts passed down to us from the beginning, sanctuary is hereby granted. Let it be known, however, that true safety lies in Melanil. There is only so much the king’s soldiers and the watch can do with the crowds here, but in Melanil, the Order has many more resources at its disposal.” Again his brow furrowed.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing … it’s just that you seem … familiar. Anyway, how else can we be of service? Do you require food? Coin? A means of travel?”

“No, my concern is more for my daughter.”

“Oh?” He glanced around. “Where is she?”

“Resting.”

“Is she ill?”

She took a deep breath. “She’s only seven and melded recently. I was informed by one of my armsmen that the skill she used should’ve been beyond her capability unless—”

“She was induced,” Montere finished.

“Yes.”

“Exactly what did she do?” Montere’s shaped brows drew together.

“Men who were once in my service wished to rob and murder us. She made them kill each other.”

The Curate hissed. He glanced around before leaning in close. “You’re saying she’s used a mindbend? That she’s a Mesmer?” His voice was a hair above a whisper. “This is more than troubling. You must allow me to look at her, the sooner the better.” Behind the man the door opened.

Four people entered. The one in the lead was a broad-nosed man with a mustache curled at the ends and a beard tapered to a point. He wore thick woolen britches with a damask jacket lined with fur. Behind him was a slimmer man with a long gait and legs to match, dressed in thick, shiny velvet. The last man was tall, broad of shoulder, silver highlighting his auburn hair. He flaunted a rich wool jacket that featured metallic scrollwork and embroidery running down the sleeves and breast. The woman with them walked with stately grace in a long dress beneath a satin damask mantle trimmed with fur.

“Hells’ Angels,” Aidah swore under her breath before she could stop herself.

The newcomers, in order, were Counts Melinden, Adelfried, and Cardinton, her husband’s sworn enemies. The woman was Queen Terestere, wife to the late king.

Aidah pulled up the hood of her cloak and turned away as Cardinton glanced in her direction. She barely heard any words the Curate was saying to her. Fighting against the urge to run, she strode between the row of benches, away from the queen and the counts. At any moment she expected to hear one of them yell after her. When no such alarm sounded, she praised the Dominion. Once outside the chantry she said an additional prayer and had Lomin rush her to the tavern.

A
Different Sort of Meal

“W
e must leave tonight. The only choice left to us now is Melanil.” In the dim light of one lamp, Aidah paced from the window to the bed and back again. She peeked through a slit in the curtains. Night was a thick cloak that stifled the pools of radiance cast by lanterns along the streets. Every shadow made her jump as she imagined someone hidden within them, watching the inn, waiting to take her and the children. Even the occasional cheer and thump from the patrons downstairs, deep into their revelry, added to her unease.

“That’s not a good idea.” Lomin stood at the other window, the folds of his clothing blending with the dark.

“Why not? By morning we would be far away.” She was confident that no one had recognized her, but what it she was wrong? Perhaps Queen Terestere might be sympathetic. After all, the woman had tutored Clara and Nerisse for a few years, and would readily invite them and other noble children to the palace for guiser’s plays, games, and other forms of entertainment. So much so that many children referred to the queen as Auntie Terestere. But knowing her own state, and the way she felt over the possible deaths of Kesta and Gaston, Aidah could see the woman looking the other way as the counts exacted revenge for the part her husband played in their downfall.

“Or we could fall prey to bandits,” Lomin said. “Worse yet, our departure might alert the very people you wish to avoid. No one in their right mind would leave this late.”

“What if we warn the soldiers? Or perhaps we could see if any King’s Blades are here, let them know.” She was growing desperate, but her mind screamed for her to be away from the town.

“Listen to yourself. The King’s Blades would recognize you. As for any soldiers, who’s to say they don’t already know? Smart men would choose not to confront three counts and a queen who owns Blades as well as other melders almost as powerful. And even if the king’s men were to manage to drive them from Garangal, where would Terestere and the counts go? North, either to Melanil, like every other noble seeking sanctuary, or beyond to Helegan. That means traveling on the same road as us.”

She did not like his condescending tone one bit, but he was right. Sighing, she tried to get a grip on her fear. “At first light, then.”

“You could simply try talking to the queen,” Aran said. Aidah scowled at the man. He shrugged. “The queen’s always been the most reasonable of all the nobles, or at least so I’ve heard. She fed the dregs, provided those large bonfires during the winter to keep them warm … I heard she even set up schools for some of them. Word in the Smear was that it was her doing that got King Jemare to agree to the treaty that formed the Consortium. They might have been dregs, but the Consortium’s guild members and their smuggling endeavors lined the pockets of many a noble and brought coin to the Smear, made it more useful than just for the Day of Accolades. She can’t be all bad.”

“Even if all that were true,” Aidah said, “you’re forgetting one thing: my husband helped overthrow hers, sided with the man who killed Jemare. My husband is the reason Terestere now flees.”

“True, but maybe one of us could do the talking then.”

“Have you ever had a child or wife murdered?” Aidah asked, scowling.

“Never had a reason to get married, and as far as I know, I don’t have any children.”

“So you wouldn’t know what it feels like to lose people that made life worth living. To wake up one day to discover that the person who made your heart beat, made you feel beautiful, was gone, butchered like so much meat.”

“Can’t say that I would.”

“Then allow me to enlighten you. It makes you want to do whatever is necessary to ensure the safety of those you have left, but more than that, you crave to hurt the person that inflicted such pain upon you; you want them to lose someone precious. Such desires fill you, and it is all you can do to think of other things, to think of those who need your care so that the lust for blood doesn’t overwhelm you.” Aidah’s hands shook, and she could do nothing to stop them. She’d avoided those thoughts for the most part, but they were there, deep down, waiting for a chance to spill forth.

“Put like that I guess the best course is to avoid her,” Aran said.

“Now that we’re all agreed,” Lomin said before Aidah could reply, “it’s best for you to get some rest, m’lady. You’ll need it.”

Aidah gave a reluctant nod. With the mention of rest, weariness bore down on her. She’d stolen a moment when she could, but since leaving the estate any prolonged sleep had eluded her. The slightest noise woke her, and the beat of hooves often brought a sliver of hope. As much as her mind said Gaston and Kesta were dead, her heart held out for that chance, for a blessing. Thinking of her family, she curled up next to Nerisse and Clara, staring at the ceiling, once more offering prayers for their safety. Before long, she nodded off.

Dreams came. In them, they fled, Clara’s mind growing worse. One day they stopped at a village for supplies. Aidah went to speak to the innkeeper while Clara ran off to play with some other children. Screams from one of the sitting rooms sent Aidah running, fearful that Ainslen’s hunters had caught them. When she entered the room, she saw the other children huddled in a corner. A bronze-scaled beast whose head almost touched the ceiling advanced on them. The thing had black claws and walked upright like a man before dropping down on all fours. It growled, a low deep rumble. Aidah saw Clara then. The little girl’s eyes were wild, mad, unfocused. She had one hand held out, and a white glow suffused her body, extending to the creature. Aidah knew then that the Dracodar was Clara’s creation. The beast leaped, maw full of fangs open wide.

Aidah sat bolt upright, eyes wide, sweat pouring down her face. A dark form hovered in front of her. She made to scream.

“Shhh.” A hand clamped over her mouth. “It’s me, Lomin.” The form resolved into the Blade.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Aidah nodded. Lomin removed his hand. “What is the meaning of this? Is it time to leave yet?” she demanded. The room was almost in complete darkness save for the spear of Antelen’s light carving its way between the curtains.

“No, it isn’t, but I bear some bad news.”

Aidah’s heart immediately set to racing. She couldn’t clearly see Lomin’s pockmarked face, but she could sense the unease from the man, the nervousness, concern that edged its way into fear. “What is it?”

“Aran says he spotted Cardinton’s men, three of them, all Blades. They’re watching the inn. There’s sure to be more that we can’t see.”

Gods help us.
“I told you we should’ve left,” Aidah hissed. She regretted ever listening to the Blade. Her mind whirled as she tried to think of a way out.

“I doubt they’ll make a move against us, or they would’ve done so already.”

“Can you be certain of that?”

“I can’t.”

“So what now?” Aidah’s thoughts were a jumble, filled with concern for Clara and Nerisse.

“Aran and I were thinking that maybe we could take the wagons, trick them into believing we’ve left in the morning.”

“And what of myself and the girls?”

“We could pay one of the serving ladies to imitate you. It’s cold. With a cloak and layered clothes their men might not know the difference,” Lomin said. “You could then take our horses and escape.”

Despite her lack of experience in this type of situation Aidah recognized a plan borne of desperation. It would not work.

“Mother, what’s wrong?” Nerisse asked. A sliver of moonlight illuminated her face, glinted from her eyes.

Aidah considered hiding the truth before dismissing the idea. Nerisse deserved to know what they faced. Kesta had spoken to them both about Far’an Senjin and the danger to be expected as he placed himself firmly against King Jemare. With the threat imminent, Nerisse might need to be the one who saw to Clara’s safety. “Earlier tonight, while I was trying to secure a wiseman to tend to Clara, Counts Cardinton, Melinden, Adelfried, and Queen Terestere arrived at the chantry.”

Nerisse sucked in a breath and promptly sat up. “Did they see you?”

“I thought I had managed to sneak off without them doing so, but Cardinton’s men are now watching the inn.”

“Mother,” Nerisse said, voice solemn as she rested a hand on Aidah’s arm, “I’ve been listening to the talk on the road here, the talk between you and the others. I know that the rest of our family is gone. You still try to deny it, as do I at times, but you need to face the truth, to accept that Father and Gaston are dead.”

Nerisse’s words broke something in Aidah. Her heart ached and it felt for all the world as if the pain would never diminish. “I try, but it’s so hard.” Tears trickled down Aidah’s cheeks. “Accepting that they’re dead would be to say my life, as I know it, is finished.”

“So what if it is? You said yourself that Father and Gaston would want us to be strong, to continue on without them. The old life might be over, but it’s time to forge a new one, not cling to the past and unrealistic hopes. With the counts out there, only one thing is left to be done.”

A chill swept through Aidah. Since the night she retrieved the box, she’d avoided thinking of it. Giving it to Nerisse would mean placing her in the forefront of danger. Those nightmares where the girl wound up dead came rushing back. Aidah avoided glancing toward the chair in the corner. “You can’t … you mustn’t … you—”

“Mama, Papa, Gaston.” The whimper from Clara cut Aidah off. The girl was still asleep, but the fitful murmurs continued. “I want Papa and Gaston … Papa … Gaston.” She dwindled to silence.

“I must and I will,” Nerisse said firmly. “Lomin, leave us.” When the door closed behind the Blade, she turned to Aidah. “This is the only way. It won’t be the first time I’ve partaken.” Her eyes shifted to the wooden box on the chair.

Aidah’s mouth opened and closed. How much had Kesta done with the children that he had not told her? She had seen him spar on nights after he partook of the box’s contents. He became so strong and fast that he would regularly defeat five or six men without much effort. To her untrained eyes his skill with soul magic seemed to surpass that of the Blades: men who could create flames from nothing, conjure weapons as real as any crafted by a blacksmith, make their bodies like stone, toss around an object ten times their weight as if it were a feather. His power had frightened her.

Nerisse stood and made her way across the room to the box. Riveted, legs wooden, Aidah could only watch. Nerisse flipped open the lid and removed the metal container.

May the Dominion shelter us,
Aidah prayed.

“This will put me to sleep for a short while,” Nerisse said, “but there’s no need to fear or to call for a wiseman. Just make certain I’m not disturbed.”

This iteration of her daughter was one Aidah did not know. To combat the need to stop Nerisse, she told herself that this
was
the only way left to them.

From the container Nerisse took a ceramic jar. It held Dracodar remains. Aidah remembered all too well Kesta’s words about the beasts. He’d been convinced that they were blessed by the Gods to wield soul magic to its full potential. As proof, he spoke of the dregs chosen by the Order to become King’s Blades, the power they wielded, the strength in soul that was unsurpassed. That was before he began his own experiments with the box.

Nerisse scooped out the jar’s contents and slowly brought her hand to her mouth. She began to chew. Pressure built within the room. She took another helping. Soon, slow eating became that of a starved person gorging on a coveted meal. The wet, smacking sounds made bile rise in Aidah’s throat.

The heaviness grew until it became near unbearable, cloying, the air thick and hard to breathe. Aidah wanted to run away, wanted to get as far as possible. Another part of her became fascinated by the spectacle.

As Nerisse ate, the sensation of being overpowered increased, as if the building itself rested upon Aidah’s shoulders. She wanted to cry out, to scream, but she could only whimper. When Nerisse finished and finally made her way to the bed as if in a trance, Aidah prayed to the Dominion more fervently that she ever had in her life.