Soul of the World Read online

  He was up already, sanding away at one of the wooden benches facing the dais below. She knelt beside the wooden divider at the edge of her loft, folding her arms and resting her head on her hands as she watched him work. Father Thibeaux wasn’t truly a blood relative, just an old priest with a soft temperament who had taken pity on a girl in need.

  He is kind, Zi thought to her. He phrased it delicately, as if the concept of kindness needed to be handled with care.

  “Yes, he is,” she said in the soft whisper she always used when talking to Zi in the chapel. “Having second thoughts about letting me tell him about you?”

  That would be unwise.

  She sighed, looking over the divider, watching her uncle work until he noticed her, looking up with a smile. His thick gray mustaches and long eyebrows exaggerated his every facial expression, and this was a welcome one. The priest’s robes he wore were old but well mended, long brown wool with a single line of buttons running from the top of his neck to below his waist. Only the pink marks on the backs of his hands unnerved her, a sign of what would happen to her if she ever ran afoul of the priests, or the city watch.

  Binder’s marks. The product of the test administered to every child in the realm, the sign of duty owed the crown for permission to touch the sacred lines of power. Twenty years’ service, or a lordly sum of gold paid to the King for a writ of pardon, and the blue and gold tattoos that came with it—such was the price for the gift of magic. The same gift she had, yet her hands were smooth and clean, and she meant to see they stayed that way. For reasons he had never disclosed, Father Thibeaux had helped to shield her from his fellow priests since he’d first taken her in from the streets.

  “Good to see you awake, child,” he called up to her. “Fancy giving me a hand with the benches before you head out for the day?”

  “Of course, uncle.” No sense dwelling on unpleasantness. She wasn’t like to be caught by the watch in the middle of the chapel.

  She finished dressing and gathered her sketching materials into her pack. Yesterday’s sketches she left behind, the elegant lines of the nobles laughing on the green and the gore of the young soldiers separated from their heads in the public square. Not that there wouldn’t be demand for those in the market—if anything, selling both sets alongside one another would speak to the city’s mood. But that was precisely the point. Juxtaposing the nobles’ frivolities against their execution of peach-faced youths could land her in a cold chamber in a guardhouse somewhere. Wiser to let tensions subside for a few days.

  She climbed down the ladder into the main hall of the chapel, setting her pack down before grabbing a cloth and kneeling to work on the front row of benches.

  “So,” her uncle asked as he stooped over the bench he was scouring. “What’s today’s adventure?”

  “The Harbor,” she replied. “They’re expecting the Queen Allisée to arrive shortly after the morning tide.”

  “The warship?” he asked, harrumphing when she nodded. “Too much warmongering lately. You’ll take care down at the Harbor, yes? Rough types there, sailors and the like.”

  “I’ll be careful, uncle. The docks aren’t dangerous with all the soldiers about.”

  He paused a moment, then cleared his throat as he always did before he recited scripture. “Vigilance. Third virtue of the Exarch. Sixth verse.”

  He was testing her. “Second virtue of the Exarch. Sixth verse. ‘The threatening blade is wielded by those under the veil.’”

  He nodded, satisfied. “And what are we to make of the sixth verse?”

  “Look for danger where we least expect it,” she said. She’d recently reread this passage in the holy books, the grand stories supposedly left behind from a time when the Gods walked the earth, imparting their wisdom as they fought battles against their ancient enemy. Whatever she made of the lessons within, the holy books were the only writing she had at hand. It wouldn’t do to squander her uncle’s lessons by letting her mind go dull.

  He nodded again. “That is one interpretation, and the common one in Sarresant,” he said, his eyes alight with interest. “Would you believe the Thellan translation ascribes that passage to the virtues of the Veil instead? They interpret it to mean that those loyal to her virtues are the most threatening of warriors.”

  She listened as he weaved an impromptu sermon. It was a shame they got so few parishioners here in the Maw. Her uncle had a gift. Not for the first time she silently questioned why a priest with his ability for rhetoric and analysis had been content with such a small piece of the ecclesiastical pie. In all the years he’d been in charge of the Sacre-Lin, he’d never so much as asked for another priest to help him maintain the place, as far as she knew.

  He was wrapping up as they finished scouring the last two benches in the center of the chapel, when his tone shifted, growing somber.

  “Sarine, you must take care out there,” he said, meeting her eyes with a look of concern.

  “Uncle …?”

  “I’m serious, child. These are dangerous times, especially so for you. Imagining you up on the headsman’s block, facing down one of those guillotines … it’s more than an old man can stomach.” His eyes had reddened, his cheeks flushed. What was this? It was true they’d been executing lawbreakers with more zeal than normal lately, but she had her gifts. He should know; he’d trained her himself, at least with the basics of her binding abilities. And yes, it wasn’t exactly legal for her to do what she did without a sanction from the crown, but he’d always been confident in her skills before.

  “Uncle, I am careful.”

  He nodded, wiping his eyes. “I know, I know. I’ve taught you what little I can, though it may damn my soul, but even with your talent there are dangers. I don’t fear for my head, but you, I could not stand the thought …”

  She moved over and slid her arms around him.

  “Thank you, child,” he said. “Only, promise me you will keep yourself safe.”

  “I promise.”

  “Oracle’s tits, girl, watch where you’re going!” a voice yelled down from a second-floor balcony. The crate that had slipped loose from their winched ropes and crashed to the ground had missed her by inches, though the worker’s shouting did a fine job of clearing the shock from her mind.

  “Did your mother teach you to tie that knot, you wine-limp son of a whore?” she shouted back. The rope puller dismissed her with an obscene gesture as a pair of warehouse men rushed to the street to gather the crate’s contents and clean up the mess. Zi trundled behind her, his legs pumping to keep pace as he swiveled his head around, drinking in the scene. His scales seemed to be fighting a battle over whether to be a deep emerald green or a dark crimson. Zi loved coming here, though Sarine found it too frenetic without a good vantage point from which to observe.

  It was toward just such a point she strode, a neatly stacked tower of barrels and crates that would take the customs men several hours to clear, given the throng of activity surrounding the Queen Allisée. Plenty of time for her to sketch the day’s events.

  She edged around the crowds, staying close to the warehouses lining the harbor. Soldiers and seamen wandered the waterfront with hungry eyes, having set foot on dry land for the first time in a month or more. She had no illusions what they hungered for. More than a few pointed at her in her slim-fitting trousers and coat, making ribald asides to their companions. She ignored them, climbing the crates as quick as she could. Gods knew the brothels of New Sarresant celebrated every ship that made anchor in the city’s deep harbor. Plenty of such ships today, though none of them half so grand as the triple-decked man-o’-war that had pride of place beside the city’s longest dock. Sarine settled in atop a large crate, making space for her pack as she fetched out her sketching materials. The docks could be an irritating mass of even more irritating people, but she loved to sketch the ships. So many lines, like a puzzle of ropework to unravel with her charcoals. She got to work on the Queen Allisée, relishing every stroke of the ship’s maje
sty as it lolled back and forth with the tide.

  Zi draped himself atop a barrel beneath her as she worked, regarding the teeming mass of people below. Every so often he paused and perked up his head with interest as something caught his attention, a dustup or shouting match or something of the kind. Zi was the best sort of companion. He required little more than a good observation spot, and he gave her the space she needed to concentrate on her work.

  And without him she never would have survived the Maw.

  She suppressed a shudder at that thought, her mind straying to memories she would as soon forget.

  Yellow.

  She frowned.

  “Zi, what does that mean?”

  Yellow. Nearby.

  She rested her charcoal on the leg of her trousers, panning a look across the harbor for a sign to indicate his meaning. Nothing more than business as usual: fishmongers hawking wares, dockworkers loading or unloading crates, sailors looking to get drunk no matter the time of day. Almost she said as much, when a pair of blue-coated soldiers came around a winding street at the southern end of the docks, running as if they’d been set afire, threatening to trample anyone between them and wherever they intended to go.

  She wasn’t the only one to have noticed. It was one thing for children or less-than-savory types to go running through the streets in the middle of the day. Even from atop her stack of crates it was clear the soldiers were panicked, setting pretense aside in a desperate rush to get far away from whatever put them to retreat.

  The harbor’s buzz fell quiet as more heads turned to watch the soldiers run.

  “Stop there,” came a deafening bellow, loud enough to hear it even half a harbor away. “You lads, hold fast.”

  She couldn’t see the source of the commands, but they’d fallen on deaf ears. The soldiers kept at their run, leaving behind a wake of gossip and speculation in the Harbor crowds milling beneath her crates.

  “What was that, Zi?” She craned her neck down toward the harbor. “What was that you said about ‘yellow’?”

  It was Yellow, he replied.

  Zi lay back down on the crate beside her, appearing more interested in the buzzing of the crowd than the soldiers’ strange flight. She frowned again, preparing to press the issue, when a squad of sailors trotted down the waterfront toward where the soldiers had come running. She spared another look at Zi, then shook her head and began gathering up her materials.

  Going so soon?

  “Going to chance a look at whatever’s happening down there,” she said. “Since it doesn’t appear you’re going to be any help.”

  He let out a long yawn, uncoiling his back as he stretched.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Fine by me.

  That was something. Zi wouldn’t let her walk unaware into danger. The soldiers’ display would be on the tongues of half the commonfolk in the Harbor by now, and well on the way inland before suppertime. A sketch or two of whatever had sparked this news would draw more than its share of eyes in the market. She secured her pack and made her way back down to the street just in time for the squad of sailors to pass by the base of her crates. For once they spared no attention for her as they made their way toward whatever had sent the first group of soldiers running for their lives.

  She closed her eyes and shifted her vision to the leylines, finding an ample reserve of Faith beneath the ships rolling on mooring lines with the tide. Most such stores would fade after a few days at port, but the warship’s flotilla was fresh enough to retain whatever belief sustained its sailors on the long trek across the ocean, and that meant Faith for her. She made the tether, fading from view as she fell into step behind the men.

  At first the street seemed normal enough. The southern part of the harbor was less trafficked than the northern end, but it had the usual assortment of shops, taprooms, loading docks, and wide warehouse doors facing the street. It took a dozen paces before she noticed the street was not just quiet—it was silent. Especially in light of the Queen Allisée’s arrival, that was unheard of for the midmorning harbor. As far as she looked up and down the waterfront, not a soul stirred, save a small knot of what looked like dockworkers fussing over some crates they carried from a warehouse to load a wagon facing inland toward the Riverways. Nothing out of the ordinary there, except they appeared to be supervised by a man in a finely embroidered red coat half again too richly dyed for a dockside quartermaster.

  The sailors marching ahead of her seemed to follow the same line of reasoning, shifting course toward the workers and their red-coated master. She followed behind at a healthy distance, maintaining the cloak of Faith bound through the leylines in the north side of the harbor.

  The man in the red coat shot a look up the street toward their approach, and the sailors she’d been following broke in terror.

  It was all she could do to dive out of their way, a stampede fleeing as fast as their legs could carry them, tripping over each other in a mad rush. And no denying the source. Even from a distance she could see the man in the red coat nod in satisfaction, then bark an order to the men unloading the warehouse in front of him.

  What under the Gods? He hadn’t made a threatening gesture, or brandished a weapon that she could see. If it was a leyline binding, it was like no binding she’d seen. He’d sent a troop of sailors running like … well, like the soldiers who had come before them, and with no more than a glance.

  She picked herself up, still shrouded by Faith, and felt half an urge to find the city watch herself. Still, whatever he’d done to the sailors, it hadn’t affected her. Perhaps she could get closer, enough to see the contents of the crates his men were unloading.

  He turned again, frowning as he stared right at her.

  Red, Zi thought to her. And then, Yellow.

  She froze, expecting him to approach, or bark an order, or raise a weapon. Instead he shook his head, laughing to himself as he returned his attention to his men’s thievery.

  Close. Even if he were a binder, he wouldn’t be able to see her behind Faith, only trace the pattern of her connection. Too much to risk, though. Whatever they were doing, she’d seen enough.

  She backed away, a knot of curiosity still lodged in her throat as she made way back toward the northern harbor.

  4

  ARAK’JUR

  Ipek’a Hunting Grounds

  Sinari Land

  An ethereal nimbus surrounded him as he called upon the spirit of anahret.

  Anahret was small; a child or a woman might mistake one for a common lizard. The eyes were the difference. Instead of the normal iris-and-pupil of a common reptile, anahret’s sockets were filled with pools of black mist. A trail of vapor marked their movements, thin wisps when they turned to track their prey. Easy to miss, and costly. The bite of anahret was death.

  He knew them well, understood what it was to wear their skin. A gift earned by slaying one of their kind, beseeching the spirit that answered when it fell. A wave of cold washed over him as the spirit granted its power, and his heart stopped, his lungs slowing until he no longer felt the need to breathe. It was in this state anahret lay in wait beside feeding grounds and watering holes. The creatures could remain motionless for days, until prey approached. He needed that patience now, so close to the end of his hunt.

  Nearby, a copse of bushes rustled as a pair of birds took flight. Otherwise the forest was quiet, breeze rattling branches, shaking loose a bough of leaves from a nearby elm. Arak’Jur lay beside a boulder, covered in dirt and fallen leaves, with a vantage to spot the approaches to the stream winding through the wood below.

  Any moment, she would call again.

  A trumpet blast thundered through the wood, the bone-chilling screech of a female ipek’a. This female was a magnificent creature, nine feet tall, long crimson feathers bristling off her back like a rack of deadly spikes. One could tell how recently an ipek’a had made a kill by the hue of its plumage. Whelps and males, smaller and less aggressive than the females, were white, or
a light shade of pink. The females were darker and richer. This one was a deep, lustrous red. The color of fresh blood.

  He couldn’t see her as she sounded, but he’d been shadowing her pack for three days. They’d stopped to weather the storm on the horizon, black thunderclouds sweeping in with the evening breeze. Smart creatures. The cave they’d found could as easily have been chosen by men for its defensible position and easy access to fresh water. This storm was precisely what he needed. On the move, the pack would never have relaxed their guard around water. For his plan to work he needed one of their young to venture out alone.

  At the base of the incline, a brown elk stepped from behind a bush, keeping its head down as it strode toward the running waters of the stream. The ipek’a’s screech had passed, and the elk must have thought it safe to sate its thirst. So near a pack of ipek’a the creature’s instinct served him poorly. The elk reached the stream and lowered its head, lapping at the cool fresh water.

  A flurry of crimson streaked into view, and the elk scarce had time to cry out before a scything claw took it in the throat. Blood and fur spattered across dried leaves as the elk’s cry became a gurgling noise, halfway between a scream and a whimper. And there she was. Ipek’a. She arched her long neck into the air as the roots of her feathers darkened, as if each feather drank a sip of blood from the flesh of her kill. She let out a triumphant snort, leaning down to extract a bloody clump of flesh in her powerful jaws. The ipek’a had inverted joints and enormous musculature in their hind legs. They did not run at their prey. They leapt. No telltale vibrations in the ground or crashing through underbrush. When an ipek’a committed to a kill, it was silent, swift death from above.