Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Read online

  “My ruling was just. If you refuse the Mithgarders passage, then you’ll not leave at all.”

  Jaren took a step back. He saw Sulaiman's anger threatening to burst into violence and contemplated drawing his zephyr. He opted for the rodcaster instead.

  “You're in no position to dictate the passenger list,” Jaren said, aiming the oversized barrel at the priest's armored chest. “Let's calm down and continue this discussion like adults.”

  A blood red fire kindled in Sulaiman's right palm. Before Jaren could press the rodcaster's trigger, the spark flared into a blade of solid flame arcing from the priest's hand. With a deft motion of his wrist, the flaming sword sent the bulky gun skidding across the ice.

  Jaren jumped back as the blade's fiery point stabbed at his heart, singing a hole in his shirt but sparing his skin. In an instant, Jaren’s own sword was humming in his hand. He drove straight at Sulaiman, his eyes fixed on a point several feet behind the priest as though he intended to pass straight through him. He probably would have, had his slash hit home.

  Contrary to Teg’s frequent chiding, Jaren found that carrying a sword in the age of zephyrs and firearms gave him an advantage in close quarters. Most people had no answer for three feet of sharp steel.

  Sulaiman Iason was not one of them.

  The priest stood and watched as Jaren charged across the snowy ridge. Just before he struck, Sulaiman pivoted left and held his fiery blade perpendicular to Jaren’s horizontal slash, deflecting the attack with a simple motion of his wrist and the bitter tang of burnt metal.

  Jaren’s confidence burst like a paper sack. He hadn't expected Sulaiman to panic like most opponents, but he hadn't thought the man would parry his stroke. Jaren prided himself on his mastery of swordsmanship, but he tempered his pride by training as though he faced equal foes. Yet despite Jaren’s rigorous practice, long life, and superb reflexes, Sulaiman was proving a bit too equal.

  Jaren's momentum, combined with the slickness of the snow-covered rock, had carried him several paces past Sulaiman. He glanced over his shoulder while turning at the waist to intercept the priest’s counter. The flaming blade flashed in his peripheral vision. Its searing point would have punctured Jaren’s eye, but he deflected the blow an instant before impact.

  Jaren used the second that Sulaiman spent regaining his balance to pivot around and face him, but he wasted too much motion and couldn’t evade the priest's lightning-fast thrust at his neck. Jaren reeled backward, but the flaming sword claimed a swath of his scarlet mane. The reek of singed hair stung his nose.

  Jaren lashed out in a rising diagonal cut from Sulaiman's left hip to his right shoulder; his sword humming like a shaken beehive. The unconventional attack angle caught the priest off guard, but it was guided by fury; not skill. Sulaiman sprang back, finishing in a controlled uphill slide that opened some distance between them.

  Sulaiman brought the palm of his steel hand down on the point of his sword, and for an instant Jaren imagined that his foe would skewer himself on the burning blade. Instead, both hands came together, compressing the length of solid fire between them. The priest ended the motion with both hands cupped at his left side. Then he swept his right hand outward in a wide half-circle across his chest. As his hand blurred along its arc, it loosed three lemon-sized orbs of crimson fire.

  Fortunately, Jaren had already seen Sulaiman launch the same weapon at Gibeah. He anticipated the fireballs' pattern and swiveled his shoulders sideways. The outer missiles passed him by, drilling twin holes through a snow cornice. He batted the middle projectile away with the flat of his blade, leaving its Worked steel blackened and ringing.

  Jaren’s foe studied him as if reading his soul. The priest's sapphire eyes, which had gleamed with calm determination, seemed suddenly weary. “You have skill,” Sulaiman said. “Even wisdom of a sort. My god and my men are gone. Perhaps I’d do well to join my remnant with yours and quit this Circle while I can.”

  “You could do worse,” Jaren said with a tilted grin.

  37

  In a narrow gully high on the Ogre Fang’s west shoulder, Mithgar Navy Commander Enric Stochman huddled in a tent made from the coats of the dead. The donors still complained about the cold, but the needs of the living took precedence.

  Besides melting ice when he could no longer ignore his thirst, Stochman had done little for the past two days but brood over the long string of humiliations he'd suffered at Jaren Peregrine’s hands. The voyage had strayed far from the mission he'd signed on for: to explore Strata unclaimed by the Guild and get rich in the process. In Stochman’s view, the Gen’s selfish pride had foiled his efforts to get back on course and had caused every disaster that followed.

  Some of the officers doubted that Peregrine had regained the Exodus, but Stochman thought otherwise. The ship had moved, for one thing; just enough to make it inaccessible from the cliff. Then there’d been the avalanche the day before—sweeping down the south face with such force as to be heard and felt on the western slopes. Stochman saw Peregrine's witch at work in every ill omen.

  The huge black hull filled the sky above camp, looking as though one could reach up and touch it. Stochman laughed ruefully at the cruel reminder of his exile. The Gen was probably raising a glass in triumph while the rightful master of the Exodus cowered under clothes that dead men didn't need anymore.

  Betrayal begat betrayal, of course. A few of Stochman’s men had taken him aside to urge a descent from the high camp, and he’d been an officer long enough to know that a sentiment voiced by one was shared by ten others. Still, he refused.

  Did lust for the ship prevent his retreat? Stochman admitted that pride played a role, but it wasn't the only reason. After all, even if his people survived an unguided descent, where could they go?

  Stochman became aware of the cold. It was always cold, but the icy mountain air mainly assaulted his skin. This new and sudden chill started at his core and flowed outward.

  The stranger in black appeared. The tent flaps hadn’t parted. One moment Stochman was alone; in the next the sharply dressed man was simply standing there. The commander would’ve blamed altitude sickness but for their prior meeting in a lonely hallway.

  “Hail, winter hare!” The strange visitor said in an icy voice that more aptly belonged to someone—or some thing—much larger.

  “What do you want?” Stochman asked through chattering teeth.

  The stranger’s laugh resembled the roar of an avalanche. “I beg pardon, sirrah. The pangs of living flesh oft escape me.” He held out his hand. A yellow flame danced in his upturned palm.

  Stochman stared. That was no Working! But amazement soon gave way to relief as heat radiated out to him. “So you're another dead man,” he said. “Are you one of Sulaiman's?”

  “Not like the damned,” the stranger said. “True death cuts the silver cord and brings an end to Mysteries. I severed my life’s thread but gained one of gold.”

  Fewer than two minutes had passed, and the dead man was already on about the sort of esoteric nonsense that everyone seemed to be spouting lately. “Never mind,” Stochman said. “Say your piece.”

  The man's hand betrayed only the barest hint of movement before a titanic force whipped Stochman’s head to one side. The commander pressed cold, shaking fingers to the warm welt on his jaw. Though delivered by a human hand, the blow had felt like a rock falling from the peak and onto his face.

  “You were told that your warnings were spent,” the stranger said. “Though I restore your mastery of the ship, never must you presume mastery of me. Mind this lesson, and all betwixt us shall be well.”

  Stochman stared into his benefactor's emotionless face and nodded.

  Elena sat at a metal table under a single light. The small arsenal laid out before her represented every type of sidearm in the ship’s inventory.

  Teg slid a pistol forward. “Go ahead and break it down,” he said.

  The girl took up the firearm. Though much smaller than Teg’s fi
fty caliber zephyrs, the .38 looked comically large in her delicate hands. Elena’s expression conveyed deep focus as she started stripping the pistol with slow, deliberate motions. Teg looked over her shoulder, giving instructions and occasionally guiding her soft fingers with his own callused ones.

  “What are you doing?” Deim snapped.

  Teg glanced at the doorway where the steersman stood frowning. “I'm putting her to work,” said Teg. “She's got to pull her own weight, same as everybody else.”

  “But…guns?” Deim fumed. “She could hurt herself!”

  Elena set the gun’s barrel, slide, and grip on the table. “They can’t hurt me.”

  “You could accidentally hurt someone else, then,” said Deim.

  Elena glanced at Deim. “I don't need these to hurt someone.”

  Teg raised an eyebrow. “That a threat?” he asked.

  The girl resumed her work. “Just a fact.”

  Deim approached Elena as if treading on ice. “We're about to leave for the Fifth Circle,” he said. “Will you be safe here?”

  “No one's safe here.”

  “I'll stay if it makes you feel better,” Deim told her.

  “You’re a cute couple,” Teg said to the girl, “but I’d ask Nakvin to run some blood work. You don't know where he’s been.”

  Elena’s rose-colored eyes went wide. Deim stared at Teg, his nostrils flaring.

  “What?” asked Teg. “It was hard not to see that little peepshow in your cabin.” He turned back to Elena. “You should be more careful with those cables.”

  Deim usually shrugged off Teg’s jokes at his expense, but this time the kid trembled with a murderous rage he’d never seen before.

  Jaren arrived just as Teg’s hand was inching toward the nearest gun. The captain leaned in the doorway and eyed the armory's three occupants. “Does it really take three of you to check and pack the guns?” he asked.

  Teg shoved both hands into his pants pockets. “She's finishing the last one now,” he said.

  Elena set the reassembled zephyr on the table. “It's done.”

  Jaren nodded. “Nakvin wants us to meet her in the cargo hold in twenty minutes.”

  “I'll be there,” said Teg.

  “Deim, you’re with me,” Jaren said. “She’ll be here when we get back.”

  The young steersman slunk after Jaren, keeping his eyes on Elena until the last second.

  Nakvin stood at the back of the cargo hold looking over the faces of the men who were trusting her with their lives. Teg returned her look blankly, as if impatient to get started. Deim fidgeted. Sulaiman’s expression made her think of heavy storm clouds brooding on a dark horizon. Jaren favored her with a rakish smile and nodded.

  Nakvin had chosen the hold because it was the second largest space after the hangar but was far more secluded in case something went wrong. Gibeah’s demons had ransacked the ship’s stores, leaving the hold clear except for widely spaced metal uprights and overhead winch mounts. Suppressing her fear, she turned to face the back wall.

  “Stay on your toes,” she said. “I've never tried re-weaving the Circle like this before.”

  Nakvin felt grateful for Vaun’s absence. It wasn’t just that she loathed him. She’d worked with plenty of people she disliked, but his behavior around Elena had been outright threatening. Unfortunately, she seemed to be the only one who harbored misgivings about the masked man—except perhaps Sulaiman. Jaren had meant to invite Vaun on their little outing, but he’d vanished after his expulsion from the infirmary.

  The implications were both comforting and troubling. On the one hand, Nakvin wouldn't be burdened with Vaun's presence. On the other, she wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on him.

  “Not to interrupt,” said Teg, “but we can only stand on our toes for so long.”

  “Shut up unless you still want to walk home,” Nakvin said. She found the resolve to continue only by reminding herself that the sooner her job was done, the sooner she'd be back.

  Nakvin willed all doubt from her mind. She studied every line of the glossy ceramic wall and held the image in her mind's eye. Simultaneously, she conjured a mental picture of the spire that Sulaiman had described to her, along with its exact location relative to the Exodus.

  Mentally reaching out to the Circle as though hell itself were an ether-runner, Nakvin overlaid the image of the tower upon that of the wall. The bulkhead turned milky and translucent, evoking unpleasant memories of her first gel bath. The gelatinous mass began to sag under its own weight. If it fell, no one would escape in time.

  Only the discipline of two human lifetimes allowed Nakvin to regain her focus. The vision of the tower slammed into place with the surety of a steel vault, and the collapsing sheet of slime vanished as though it had never been. A doorway to a distant shore stood in its place.

  “That was touch and go for a second, wasn't it?” Teg asked.

  “I wasn't sure I could do it,” Nakvin said between panting breaths.

  Deim turned and stared at the gate. “And I thought things couldn’t get weirder,” he said.

  Nakvin tried to focus on the gate. It was like looking at a drawing of paradoxical angles. The floor, ceiling, and side walls ran over a hundred yards from the forward bulkhead and abruptly ended; not at another wall, but in a framed landscape under a sky the color of an old bruise. In the distance a vast body of dark water rippled against a sandy shore, and jutting from a promontory overlooking the beach stood the tapering cylinder of a sandstone tower.

  “Is that the place?” Jaren asked Sulaiman.

  The priest nodded. “Never could I forget that shore, though I love it not.”

  Jaren checked his ammunition one last time before starting forward. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The others fell in behind Jaren without a word. Nakvin was the last one through. When she looked back, the hold was gone. The barren shore stretched to the horizon. We fought one baal to get the ship back, she thought. Now we’re bribing another one to get back home.

  Somehow she doubted the process would be so straightforward.

  Vaun Mordechai strode down an access corridor two decks below the main hold. There, brushed steel plates concealed the pipes and cables that elsewhere cluttered the walls. Others would find it impossible to tell one panel from another, but Vaun did just that. Pressing his hand against the smooth metal in a way that only he knew made the panel slide open. Unlike Nakvin’s arcane method, shaping his surroundings required nothing more than thorough planning.

  The secret door gave on a small antechamber leading to a series of hidden rooms. Vaun had arranged their construction soon after coming to Caelia on the captured Sunspot. The station’s ignorance of his presence had allowed him to alter several work crews’ plans. In this way, the shipwrights had unwittingly assembled Vaun's suite of rooms at the intersection of their sundry work sites.

  The room just past the antechamber featured a work table in which Vaun took great pride. He’d fashioned it himself from four large slabs of concrete decking intended for the hangar. Together the sections formed a single surface that proved highly durable and easy to clean. But the crowning touch was the central support, which Vaun had crafted at great effort and personal risk. A human corpse—specially preserved and reinforced—knelt beneath the central corner of each table section; the concrete slab resting on its bent back and upthrust arms. When the table was fitted together, the four crouching figures were positioned back to back in a perfectly symmetrical pillar of once living flesh.

  Restlessness drove Vaun to pace across the room. After untold decades and light years of lonely searching, the object of his quest was literally within reach. His only rivals were a cambion Steersman and her petulant apprentice—both of whom vied for his prize while being necessary to his escape with it.

  Vaun laughed bitterly under his mask. He knew that the great powers had abandoned the universe long ago, but sometimes he pondered the existence of a dissolute deity
who remained for the sole purpose of dispensing ironic punishments. Vaun fretted over ways to discreetly remove all obstacles between himself and the girl, but inspiration eluded him. The resulting vicious circle of thought left him more out of sorts than ever until an idea for a new experiment struck him.

  Vaun was always eager to find new and exciting uses for others’ mortal remains. Such raw materials belonging to the Exodus crewmen who’d been mauled beyond recognition by Gibeah's minions occupied a walk-in freezer off the main room. Vaun was striding toward this freezer when the two table sections nearest him heaved forward with a sonorous groan and crashed to the metal floor.

  Vaun turned to see the first pair of patchwork bodies standing side by side; leering at him with a malignant awareness not their own. Before they could advance, Vaun sent the forbidden power that coursed through him into the two preserved corpses that remained beneath the table. The second set of cadaverous twins cast off their concrete burdens and arose at his whim.

  Vaun perceived the battle’s dual nature: fought visibly by the two pairs of ghoulish automatons, and invisibly by the wills that moved them. Whichever puppeteer gained control of one additional corpse would take all.

  Whoever Vaun’s foe was, the thrice-damned grave robber was skilled. His adversary wheedled for control, employing subtlety and cunning to slip the animated husks from his grasp. Vaun countered skill with sheer power, battering his opponent's link to the cadavers with a raw flow of Teth.

  All four corpses turned at once against their maker. They shared the same malevolent expression, but their formerly glazed eyes gleamed with hideous triumph.

  “Enough!” Vaun’s sepulchral voice echoed. The Void poured through the ragged tear in his soul, filling the room with a sallow golden glow. The four corpses froze, their pallid skin rimed with hoarfrost. The cadavers imploded like deflating leather balls, withering to blackened clumps of frozen flesh.