Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Read online

  About Nethereal

  A woman like no other who longs for acceptance. A precision killer inspired by the dream of his captain. The last member of a murdered race, fighting to avenge his people against the overwhelming might of the Guild…and the dark powers behind it.

  The Sublime Brotherhood of Steersmen holds the Middle Stratum in its iron grip. Jaren Peregrine, last of the Gen, raids across the fringe spheres beside Nakvin—a pilot whose relationship with her captain transcends the professional, apprentice steersman Deim, and laconic mercenary Teg Cross.

  Hunted by the ruthless Master Malachi, Jaren and his crew reluctantly join an occult conspiracy to break the Guild’s monopoly with an experimental ship. But when its maiden voyage goes awry, the Exodus flies farther off course than its crew could have imagined.

  Lost in a forgotten netherworld, Nakvin, Jaren, and their crew face mutinous officers, hellish riddles, and a stowaway necromancer whose mask hides more than his face. They turn to an exiled priest who discovers a secret incubating within the Exodus—an enigmatic evil with a startling connection to Nakvin.

  When Jaren strikes a fiendish bargain, his bond with Nakvin is tested, Teg’s identity is imperiled, and Deim’s sanity is shaken. Only the Words of Creation offer hope of escape, but finding them means racing a demon lord to the mythical Place where old gods die and new gods emerge—whether for good or ill as yet unknown…

  Nethereal

  Brian Niemeier

  Contents

  NETHEREAL

  Glossary

  Preview of SOULDANCER

  Acknowledgements

  About Brian Niemeier

  Copyright

  1

  The room where Nakvin lay confronted her with a paradox. It held far more comforts than her chamber on Tharis, yet sleep eluded her. Perhaps living with pirates for more than a century had hardened her against luxuries like transessed sheets more durable than canvas yet smoother than satin, and light fixtures docile to their owner’s whims. Or perhaps memories of an equally lavish prison made her yearn to fly back through the vast ether to Jaren’s den. Whatever the reason, restless thoughts thwarted Nakvin’s hope of enjoying a brief nap before starting her night’s work.

  Temil’s small distant moon shed more than enough light for Nakvin to see by. With the chamber’s owner asleep beside her, she began noting pertinent details. Salt-scented air tousled silk curtains in four places, marking the presence of windows. But one set of drapes never stirred.

  Nakvin carefully removed herself from Shan’s slumbering embrace. She’d given the Magus a generous dose of venom; its bitter taste still lingered. But a little discretion never hurt. Nakvin’s black hair fell past her shoulders like a velvet shroud as she rose. The abstract-patterned carpet muted her footfalls. Drawing back the motionless curtain revealed a small metal door. Her eyes’ silver reflection stared back from its dark glossy surface.

  Prudence was the defining quality of a Magus, as Master Kelgrun had said when he bestowed the rank on Nakvin. After all, only a fool would let a fool teach novices. Since Shan held the same degree, Nakvin knew that his safe would be Worked. Unfortunately she needed vocal melodies to fashion her own Workings, and songs were out of the question.

  Limited to what she could accomplish silently, Nakvin inspected the strongbox. The door and its frame were Shipwright's grade, eliminating any question of the contents’ value. The secret that Shan exploited for personal gain lured Nakvin with the promise of aiding her captain. What the guildsman concealed for fear of his Brothers would help Jaren strike fear into the Guild.

  Nakvin’s inspection revealed neither mundane traps nor hostile transessence. Holding her breath, she tried the combination that she’d teased from Shan's mind. Not until the tumblers clicked and the latch swung freely did she vent her lungs.

  I still can’t believe he talked me into this, Nakvin thought, recalling Jaren’s professions of confidence in her abilities and the sure rewards of success. As happened far too often where her captain was concerned, sentiment had overcome her better judgment. Thus she found herself alone, committing multiple felonies on a world dominated by her former captors.

  Nakvin opened the safe and froze in place as the lights came on. She cursed herself for overlooking such a simple alarm.

  “What are you doing?” a groggy, confused voice asked from behind her. The bed creaked as Shan sat up. “Come away from there!”

  Ignoring Shan, Nakvin reached into the vault and grabbed a thin crystal plaque.

  “Face me when I'm speaking, harlot!” the guildsman said, rubbing the bite mark in the crook of his elbow.

  Nakvin turned and met Shan’s white-hot glare. His face twisted in a shuddering scowl when he saw the tablet in her hand. “I'm taking this and going,” she said.

  “Not without this,” said Shan, clutching a black silk bundle in his fist. “Not even a thief would leave her Steersman’s robe.”

  Nakvin’s shock at the sight of another Magus handling her robe soon gave way to anger. She dropped the glamer that hid her more exotic features, and Shan flinched when she bared her long canines. “I’m sure your Archon would love to see this,” she said, tapping the plaque with her finger. “Would one thief report another?”

  Shan’s scowl returned. “There won’t be anything left to report,” he said. His focus left Nakvin and turned inward. His hands began cycling through the intricate patterns of the Steersman's Compass, and his breathing synchronized with his steady, practiced motions.

  Though musical notation guided her own fashioning, Nakvin could read the Compass well enough to see the greater Working taking shape from Shan’s thoughts. Unlike glamers, Workings were intended for ship construction and couldn’t directly manipulate living beings, but the forces they unleashed could easily reduce living beings to charred bits of inert matter.

  Nakvin’s gaze darted to the window. Sure enough, two sanguine points shone through the sheer curtains like a Tharisian sunset. “I’d stop now,” she said, knowing that Shan’s Working promised death, but not for her.

  Blue sparks danced on Shan’s fingertips. “Why should I trust a Gen?” he spat.

  “Gen?” Nakvin repeated, bitterly amused at how soon man’s memory faded. “They’re nothing like me. No one is.”

  Nakvin was drawing breath to sing a glamer when a guttural growl emanated from behind the curtains. The sound, so deep that it was felt more than heard, made her forget her song. Twin red lights pierced the drapes as if two torches burned behind them. “Stop!” she said.

  “Go back to hell, succubus!” Shan said, and lightning arced between his hands. He jabbed a finger at Nakvin, but before he loosed his Working the curtains tore aside with a hellish howl. Shan turned just as a grey-black blur of talons and jaws overtook him.

  Seeing no use in fretting over matters beyond her help, Nakvin sang two Workings: one to banish the light; and one to muffle the guildsman’s dying screams.

  The lady Steersman stood in the silent darkness, impassively viewing the carnage. When it was done, she was alone.

  Nakvin retrieved her irreplaceable robe from the ruin of the bed. Unlike the blood-soaked sheets, its black silk bore no stain. Her work done, she left for home.

  2

  Teg Cross knew to use caution when traveling the Tharis ash fields, especially in Jaren’s drifter. He glanced at the rearview mirror, turned its grimy surface away from the cold brown eyes looking back at him, and saw the mountains diminishing to a dark serrated line. This far from solid rock, a single mistake could strand him on the grey forsaken plains.

  Little as Teg enjoyed drifting through the wasteland, he relished the thought of walking even less. The fine volcanic ash collected i
nto basins much like water formed seas. Near the hills it was ankle deep. Farther out it rose to one’s knees, and beyond that the dust could swallow a man whole. Even now its sulfurous odor clung to his clothes, and powdery grains mixed with spit filmed his mouth with mud.

  Teg watched the bleak hills recede from view and wondered if playing swordarm to a Gen pirate was really his best career move. Not that he had anything against Gen—or even pirates. The Guild called any unlicensed ether-running piracy, and Teg couldn’t blame Jaren for cutting the Steersmen out. They’d never take his money anyway, he thought.

  Still, compared to Keth—or any of the Cardinal Spheres—mercenary work on Tharis could only be called slumming. It was Jaren’s scheme to wrest the miserable ash heap from the Guild that made Teg question his own judgment. The pirates’ man inside the chapter house provided some protection, but even Jaren couldn’t expect one local official to cover up armed rebellion.

  Even if he won the support of every freelancer in the Middle Stratum, Jaren’s revolt stood less of a chance than an ice cube in the Nine Circles. But the unbidden memory of his mother belting out shrill hymns as the Enforcers hauled her away overruled Teg’s doubts.

  Returning his focus to the grit-lined windscreen, Teg spotted a dark cloud on the horizon. Ozone mingled with the pervasive smell of sulfur. Each sphere had its own character, and Teg admitted that Jaren’s decision to base his operation on Tharis had some merit. The desert world largely escaped the Guild’s notice—along with most other people’s. But seclusion had its drawbacks. For one, dying in a dust storm would rule out a proper burial.

  Teg brought the drifter down in the shallows and shut off the engine. He got out and trudged around to the back, where a bit of rummaging produced the vehicle’s canvas top. After a few minutes’ work he returned to the cabin, which was now covered by a taut roof of olive drab fabric. Certain that the drifter was as secure as he could make it, Teg sat back to wait.

  Just before the storm hit, Teg saw something through the drifter's windscreen. It looked like a man standing out on the dust field. The tall, rail-thin figure wore a black business suit that cast him in sharp relief to the roiling grey cloud coming up fast from behind. The man in the suit seemed oblivious to the mountain of dust bearing down on him as he stalked toward the parked drifter.

  Teg took the stranger’s measure. The suit was custom-tailored, formal but for the lack of a tie and the white dress shirt’s unfastened top button. A shock of unruly golden hair surmounted the man’s angular face. A pair of steel-rimmed sunglasses hid his eyes. Something about those unseen eyes made Teg avert his gaze, which fell to the stranger's shoes—jet black with a mirror shine.

  Alarms blared in Teg’s head. Shoes—I can see the bastard's shoes!

  The dust was waist-deep out there. It didn't matter how skinny the son of a bitch was; he should've been up to his belt in fine grey grit.

  Teg felt a rare pang of fear when the stranger flashed a smile with all the warmth of a knife wound. The urge to look away returned in earnest, but this time, he couldn’t. He felt the fatal stupor of wild game caught in headlamps, certain that only a pair of smoked lenses stood between him and the abyss. An instant before the dust cloud rolled in, Teg thought he saw two points of pitch blackness bleeding through the dark glass. The stranger was still smiling when the dust engulfed him.

  When the storm passed, no sign of the stranger remained. Teg was tempted to blame the whole affair on heat exhaustion, but a vestige of his dread lingered, prompting him to switch on the defensive aura projector clipped to his belt. He exited the drifter and hastily cleared away the thick new layer of dust. He checked the fuel tank and coolant seals and returned to the cabin. To his relief the engine started, and he continued on his way.

  Teg had never been so glad to see Sojourner's Cut. Closer to a settlement than an actual town, the Cut had grown from an itinerant workers' camp into a semi-permanent desert community whose boundaries changed with the tents that went up every day and the wagons that left each night. What better place to fence one’s ill-gotten wares?

  What little there is to fence, he thought. The pirates’ last score had been even smaller than usual. Even if he bargained uncommonly well, Teg would be lucky to make an even trade for the parts and ammunition Jaren wanted.

  Teg hadn't asked where Jaren wanted the goods moved. There was only one fence in the Cut who offered a decent price with no questions asked. A rare sedentary member of Tharis’ traditionally nomadic Nesshin population, Dan ran a modest sole-proprietorship that specialized in having no specialty. Anything could be found under Dan's roof, and no one could predict exactly what anything would be on a given day: dry goods, untaxed alcohol, engine parts. Dan's was the world's most eclectic rummage sale, though on Tharis the title was no great boast.

  A set of wind chimes above the door shaped like a winged girl, an old man, and a set of numbers corresponding to a long bygone year rang dully as Teg sauntered into the concrete dome that housed Dan’s shop. He passed down the scrap-cluttered center aisle amid stuffy air redolent with cheap pipe tabacco and sidled up to the counter.

  The shop’s bald, bearded proprietor leaned across the desk and made a show of squinting his bright, attentive eyes. “Either you’re a shade come to haunt me,” said Dan, “or Zol Oison lied about Cadrys Customs sending you lot to Elathan’s Vault.”

  Teg’s hackles rose at the mention of Elathan. Invoking the god of shipwreck was bad luck. “Wishful thinking on Zol’s part,” he said. “And alive or dead, I’ve got no time for your grizzled ass.”

  “I doubt that,” said Dan, a mischievous gleam in his eye, “seeing as how I’m the only man on Tharis who can supply Jaren’s needs.” The shopkeeper arched one white eyebrow. “If the plan’s still on.”

  “Why else would I deal with a swindler like you?” asked Teg. “You spread the word?”

  Dan’s wrinkled face betrayed the smile hidden behind his beard. “I think we’ll have quite a turnout,” he said. “Tell Jaren to get that cave of his ready for company.”

  “All he needs are party favors,” Teg said, passing a small crystal sheet across the desk.

  Dan’s brow creased as he read the list. “What’s your end?’ he asked.

  “A set of backup Wheel cores,” said Teg, gesturing with his thumb toward the back lot where he’d parked the drifter. “Commercial grade.”

  “Transessed?”

  Teg nodded. “Alive and kicking from the Mill itself.”

  Mention of the Transessist order’s Cadrys mother house soured Dan’s expression. “That might be good for half.”

  Teg had no use for haggling. He let his hands inch toward the shoulder holsters that held his paired zephyrs.

  “Okay, Irons! Have it your way,” the old fence said, raising his gnarled hands in surrender. Teg took pride in that handle, one of many which invoked the shooting irons that had made him known and feared.

  Teg concluded his business by closing time, meaning that for once he didn’t have to turn around and rush back home. It was also the first time in a long while that he'd traded well enough to come away with a little of what his father had called “throwing-around money”.

  Teg left the drifter in Dan’s fenced back lot and locked the gate with Jaren's personal key—a privilege reserved for the shopkeeper's best customers and entrusted to Teg on pain of death. He left the premises and headed for the makeshift pub at the end of the bare dust strip that served as the Cut’s main drag.

  “Teg Cross?” a young man’s voice called from across the street.

  Teg started turning before he heard the zephyr’s muted report. Pain hammered into his back, and he toppled onto the tavern steps. A warm coppery tang filled his mouth. Blackness engulfed him like a dust storm.

  3

  Marshal Malachi didn’t rebuke the steward who told him in halting whispers that their arrival on Tharis would be delayed. Instead he asked the reason in a clear, level voice. The steward tugged at his uniform’s col
lar and explained that the ground crew were still clearing dust from the landing pad.

  “How long will we be detained?” Malachi asked.

  “Perhaps ten minutes, sir,” the steward said. “I could send down and check.”

  Malachi raised his hand, causing the gold-embroidered end of one black silk sleeve to recede from his wrist. Recognizing his outthrust palm as a dismissal, the steward retreated from the priority personnel cabin.

  Left to himself, Malachi lifted the glass of slightly chilled water —mundane; not elemental—from its holder in the armrest beside him and sipped, savoring the honest taste of dissolved trace minerals. The delay didn’t perturb him. The voyage from Mithgar had passed more quickly than he’d been warned to expect. But Ulger Narr was waiting on the sunbaked dust field below, no doubt eager to relinquish his post as Guild minister, which he couldn’t do until his successor arrived.

  Malachi knew that the ship had begun its landing before the steward returned fifteen minutes later to inform him. The slight shudder that ran through the cabin was the only instrument Malachi needed to deduce the ship’s speed and flight path. His active mind formed a vivid image of the courier’s blocky hull drifting toward the desolate sphere that shared its dull leaden color. In the wheelhouse two segments forward of the cabin, the Steersman would be guiding the vessel’s descent. Even aboard such an antiquated craft, the pilot held an enviable place compared to his passengers.

  After sitting through a workmanlike landing, Malachi wasted no time presenting himself at the main airlock. The round hatch irised open with a blast of oven-like heat, presenting just the grey windswept vista he’d expected. The same bleak view must have greeted his predecessors, most of whom no doubt received their first glimpse of Tharis with melancholy. Perhaps many of them had hesitated, delaying the first shoreward step that would consummate their exile.