Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Page 32

  Teg gave Elena’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” he said. “I don’t need your life story. You’re wise beyond your years, is all I meant.”

  “I'm going back inside.” Elena rose and walked back toward the ship’s dark ramparts, leaving Teg with the scattered pieces of the gun.

  At midmorning, Jaren called a meeting in the captain's mess. Elena, Vaun, and Eldrid accompanied the senior crew.

  Jaren had a specific agenda: using the Exodus against the Guild. To do that, he needed to get the ship home, and doing that meant fixing the engines. Everyone with a modicum of technical knowledge had examined the Ship’s power plant. All had gone away scratching their heads. Even Nakvin, whose experience rivaled Jaren's, had halfheartedly suggested asking Elena. The captain now acted on that advice.

  “Do you know how to fix the engines?” he asked the girl who'd spent most of the voyage plugged into them.

  Elena paused for a moment; then shook her head.

  Jaren disliked the young woman's hesitation. “Are you sure?” he pressed, tempering urgency with tact. “You said before that disconnecting the cables was a bad idea. It's hard to believe you don’t know something.”

  Elena played with a strand of her ginger-brown hair. “Nothing that will help you.”

  “Try me,” Jaren said.

  Elena stared at the black tabletop. “Creation is a rotting corpse. We're worms feeding on its flesh.”

  “Very wise, my sister,” said Vaun.

  Deim’s sunken eyes widened. “Sister?” he repeated.

  Jaren rubbed a hand across his face and sighed. “We’ll be feeding worms if we don’t make the delivery,” he said.

  “She did warn you,” said Teg.

  “Elena,” Eldrid said, pronouncing the name slowly. “That's from the Gold Tribe’s tongue. Are you part Gen?”

  The girl gave Eldrid a guarded look. “Among other things.”

  Nakvin groaned. “This is getting us nowhere,” she said. “We don't even have the manpower to repair the damage we know how to fix!”

  “There are many in Seele with the knowledge to help you,” Eldrid said. She shrank under the sudden stares of her table-mates.

  “As I explained to your captain,” she went on, “the Gen have a long history with ether-runners. You will surely find skilled shipwrights in Seele.”

  Nakvin's brow knotted. “What's Seele?”

  “Many things,” Eldrid said. “It is the royal seat of the Light Gen—those who fled to Avalon, and so kept the light of civilization. Seele is also the great hill atop which the king's court stands. Finally, it is the banner under which the towns scattered upon the palace mount gather.”

  Jaren exchanged a calculating look with Nakvin and Teg. “Who do we talk to?” he asked.

  “Seek out the Smiths' Fraternity,” Eldrid said. “You'd also do well to consult the Mystery School sages. None will know better how to restore your vessel.”

  “Can you get us a meeting with them?” Jaren asked, intrigued at the thought of meeting other Gen.

  “I recommend sending word to the court of Seele first,” said Eldrid. “It's only proper that you announce yourselves to King Gelwin. Besides, I'm sure His Majesty will wish to take counsel with one who has lived so long among the clay tribe.”

  Jaren deliberated. Staying in Avalon any longer than necessary risked calling down Mephistophilis’ curse, but the chance to learn about his people firsthand was sorely tempting. Besides, scorning protocol could make the wrong enemies at the worst possible time.

  “I'll meet with Gelwin,” Jaren said. “Getting the king on our side should smooth things over with the smiths and sages.”

  “I shall deliver your request for an audience,” said Eldrid.

  “Nakvin, Teg; come with me,” Jaren said. “We’ll escort Eldrid to the hanger.”

  Jaren and his two officers saw Eldrid to the door, but her departure proved unnecessary. Through the wide hangar door the captain saw an armed company marching toward the crashed ether-runner that far outnumbered its skeleton crew. The late morning sun glinted off polished mail, and green and gold pennants streamed from the shafts of upraised lances.

  “Should I hand out guns?” asked Teg.

  “Who are they?” Jaren asked Eldrid.

  She clutched his arm. Her scent washed over him like early spring. “The king’s lancers.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They alone can tell,” said Eldrid, “but their intentions may decide your fate.”

  48

  “Never turn your back to His Majesty,” said the royal seneschal.

  “And don’t sit till the king’s been seated,” Jaren said, eyeing Gelwin’s gilded chair. “I’m sure I’ll rememeber.”

  The seneschal’s sharp face took on a condescending look. “Do not speak until His Majesty addresses you,” he said. The primly dressed fellow sounded as though he meant to go on, but the king’s entrance through a set of dark purple curtains prevented him.

  Hailing from a society in which monarchs of any kind—let alone Gennish kings—were relics of ancient history, Jaren had based his expectations of Gelwin on folk tales. The man himself provided a surprising mix of confirmation and contradiction.

  The king of Avalon stood slightly taller than most of the Gen Jaren had seen. He wore flowing green silk vestments; dyed in blending shades reminiscent of a forest canopy and perfumed to match. Jeweled brooches linked by gold chains adorned his breast. Jaren felt slightly disappointed. Besides his rich clothes and somewhat detached air, Gelwin differed little from ordinary men.

  An impressive retinue strutted in behind the king like a line of exotic birds following their mother. He conferred with them for a few minutes before their conversation ended by spontaneous mutual accord. Jaren’s legs were starting to ache by the time Gelwin took his seat.

  Minding his crash course in royal protocol, Jaren waited until the king was settled before taking his own chair. Contrary to what he'd always heard, it was not inappropriate to look his royal host in the eye.

  And I’m glad for that, Jaren thought. Eyes often betrayed thoughts. Gelwin's were brown and framed by a long mane of auburn hair. They glinted with pride and defiance, but they also seemed haunted.

  “Captain Peregrine,” Gelwin said. “You come to us from afar. Be welcome in our house.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Jaren. “I've enjoyed your hospitality.”

  “Our lancers acquitted themselves well in extending our invitation?”

  Jaren thought of the armed company that had marched on the ship. They’d far outnumbered his crew, and he’d been relieved that they'd only come to summon him—specifically him—to speak with their sovereign.

  “I gave them my hospitality, sir,” Jaren said.

  Gelwin nodded. “Indeed. We have heard their reports. Your Exodus is a most worthy craft, unless our men's eyes deceive them.”

  “They don't.”

  “You are only half Gen,” said the king.

  Jaren did his best to keep the pang of mild offense from reaching his face. He nodded.

  “Your father was of the Fire Tribe?”

  “So I'm told. My Stratum lost the knowledge of such things long ago.”

  Gelwin shook his head. “A shame. We confess ourselves amazed at your survival among the clay tribe. We would hear how you managed such a feat.”

  “Never easily,” Jaren said.

  “Is it the case that you and your associates commit piracy?”

  “I consider seizing the property of my people's murderers compensation; not piracy.”

  Gelwin raised steeped fingers to his lips. “You may have the right of it,” he said.

  Jaren was about to ask for help repairing the ship when the king rose.

  “Good day, captain,” Gelwin said. His retainers likewise stood and voiced stilted pleasantries. Before Jaren could object, the royal party filed from the room.

  After Gelwin and his court departed, the seneschal sho
wed Jaren out by another door and gave him a tour of the palace grounds. The two men wandered elegant corridors between sprawling wings and strolled along airy colonnaded walks that followed the contours of the land. Jaren saw little. He was too busy brooding over his missed chance to ask Gelwin's help with the local tradesmen.

  “I’m surprised the king left so soon,” Jaren said when they paused amid a hallway that bridged a rushing waterfall. “We have unfinished business.”

  “The rule of Seele makes stern demands of His Majesty’s time,” the seneschal said. “Your only recourse is to seek another audience, which must wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, the royal household is pleased to welcome our benefactor’s servants.”

  Intriguing as he found the prospect of dwelling—even briefly—among his own kind, one of the quiet warnings that had served Jaren so well prompted him to decline. “Thanks,” he said, “but I should get back to my ship.”

  The Seneschal showed Jaren to Seele's main gate, which strove for harmony with its surroundings as artfully as the rest of the grounds. Jaren passed under an arch formed by the interlaced branches of two trees bearing sweet-smelling flowers and through the wild hedge that walled the grounds. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the sprawling estate had vanished into the contours of the hill.

  Waiting for him in the clearing that served as an outer courtyard were two men in brown jackets and low-peaked hats with narrow brims. These were quickly doffed to him and placed back on their owners' heads.

  “Captain,” said the nearer of the two. “You came in with a company of His Majesty's lancers, but it's a pair of the king's lowly gamekeepers who'll see you back.”

  “I prefer it after all the formality,” Jaren said.

  “It's only a two hour walk to your ship,” said the second man. “We stalkers can make pleasant company for that long.”

  Jaren and his guides set off through the thick woods blanketing Seele's hill. He soon suspected that the king's lowly gamekeepers were nothing of the kind. After two hours and at least ten miles, they not only proved, but exceeded, his expectations. The stalkers almost made Teg look slow and clumsy. He was sure they could have moved faster had he not slowed them.

  When he arrived at the ship, Jaren slumped down on the soft grass to catch his breath while his escorts wished him good day and promptly melted into the woods. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when Nakvin approached him. The wind tousled her raven hair and rippled her crimson robe.

  “How was it?” she asked.

  “Not quite what I expected,” said Jaren, still slightly winded.

  “What's it like to be with your own kind?”

  Jaren paused. He hadn’t stopped to let the experience sink in. Now that he'd been asked, he took his time formulating a response. “It’s like going back to a childhood home,” he said with a hint of sadness.

  Nakvin smiled wryly. “I wouldn't know.”

  “You will,” Jaren said as he rose and brushed off his grey pants. A Mithgar navy uniform, stripped of all insignia but the mission patch, had been the most formal attire available.

  “Sorry they didn't wait till you got back. We couldn't stop them short of violence.”

  Jaren paused and shot the Steersman a confused look. “Who couldn't you stop?”

  “The workmen,” Nakvin said, arching an eyebrow. “I don't know what you said to Gelwin, but it worked.”

  “I didn't say anything. We never got past the small talk.”

  Nakvin shrugged. “I just know that an army of workers showed up a few hours ago. If they can get us up and running, I think we should pay Despenser another visit. He might know more about Sulaiman’s attack on Elena.”

  The captain nodded; then took his senior pilot by the arm and led her into a small stand of trees. He scanned the woods despite knowing the futility of his precautions. The gamekeepers had keen ears and could easily evade his eyes.

  “You're getting that paranoid look again,” Nakvin said. “I hope there's no reason for it.”

  “Those soldiers knew I was aboard,” said Jaren. “They knew my name. When I talked to Gelwin and his people, they showed knowledge of our job that I never told anyone.”

  Nakvin looked askance at Jaren. “Not even Eldrid?”

  “I didn't tell her about the cargo or the baal's deal,” he said, “but the royal chamberlain said that servants of Mephistophilis are always welcome.”

  “Teg is wearing the baal's colors,” Nakvin said. “The lancers saw him. One of them could have passed word up the chain.”

  Jaren shook his head. “The seneschal met me at the gate, and none of the soldiers talked to him.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “That we were expected.”

  “And the shipwrights turning up unannounced,” Nakvin said. “What does that mean?”

  Jaren fell silent. His mind raced to connect the strange series of events, but no pattern emerged. “I don't know,” he said at last.

  “Do you have unconfirmed suspicions or no idea at all?” Nakvin asked.

  “Stay out of my head!” Jaren snapped.

  Nakvin started. She took a half step back, wearing a wounded frown. “I didn't have to go in,” she said softly. “I can't without your permission. I wouldn't if I could. You know that.”

  Jaren rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I'm sorry. Those stones are like weights around my neck. I should know better than to ask questions about a shipment.”

  Nakvin's expression clouded. “Eldrid told you something last night, didn't she?”

  “It's better not to ask the client's business,” said Jaren, “especially this client.”

  Nakvin folded her arms. “I think it's better to ask because of who hired us,” she said.

  “If you want to go home,” said Jaren, “The only way back is to finish this job.”

  “You can trust these Gen or not,” Nakvin said, “but don't think for a minute that you can trust Mephistophilis. Look at Teg! That happened within the first five minutes of this job. When are you going to admit you're out of your depth?”

  “Right after they put me in the ground,” Jaren growled as he stormed away.

  Vaun stepped into one pool of shadows in the hall outside the crew quarters and emerged from another inside Elena’s temporary lodgings. He blamed the steersmen for lowering him to invading his sister’s room like a common housebreaker—a profession he’d left long ago.

  The girl lay motionless in the dark. She seemed to be sleeping, but it was difficult to tell with their kind. No matter. His business was pressing enough to warrant disturbing her.

  “My sister,” he said, “are you awake?”

  Elena regarded Vaun through one half-raised eyelid. “Yes.”

  “Pardon my intrusion,” said Vaun, “but a proper discussion between us is long overdue.”

  The girl said nothing but opened both of her eyes.

  “When last we spoke,” Vaun continued, “you mentioned that your soul is a composite formed from the fragments of others, including mine.”

  Elena sat up in bed and faced him. “And you want it back.”

  Vaun paused before asking, “Can such a thing be done?”

  “You've spent most of your life searching in the hope that it can.”

  “Will you vindicate that hope?” the necromancer asked.

  Elena scrutinized a point in space above and behind him. “Your silver cord runs through the Void; makes it part of you. Filling the rift would perfect the bond.”

  “Anything is better than this!” Vaun cried, clutching his shirt as if to rend it.

  “I don't think I can trust you.”

  Vaun moved to Elena's side. He took her hand in his, but she looked away. “What vow would you have me swear?” he pleaded. “What pledge of good faith must I make to regain what was stolen from me?”

  Elena subjected him to the full intensity of her gaze. “Teach Deim your art.”

  “Initiate him into the Way of
Teth?” asked Vaun.

  The girl made no reply.

  “Hear me well,” Vaun said. “The necromancer's art is no idle pastime for the prurient or the foolish. The truths taught to apprentices are apt to crush unfit minds.”

  “He wants to help me.”

  “If I agree to this bargain, do you vow to return what was lost to me?” Vaun asked.

  “I promise.”

  Longing and uncertainty warred in Vaun’s unbeating heart. “I would know why you wish me to apprentice Cursorunda,” he said.

  Anxiety gleamed in Elena’s rose quartz irises. “He's stirring!”

  Hugging herself tightly, the young woman faded like a ghost.

  Before Vaun could speak the question hanging on his lips, he experienced a sudden moment of disorientation. When the vertigo passed, he found himself standing out in the hall.

  My life's cord passes through the Void? the necromancer mused. And now I know the domain through which yours runs, my sister.

  A cold wind blew across the Fourth Circle. It descended from the mountains and whipped through the desert; its chill untouched by the heat. A figure in black traveled with the wind—though which of them brought the other was open to debate. The figure walked in the form of a man in a black suit. Dark lenses were set over his face, but whether or not they covered eyes was as uncertain as the origin of the wind.

  Entrusting the Exodus to Stochman had been a mistake—Fallon knew that now—as had leaving to harry Tyrmagan’s scouts. His solitary journey gave him time to reflect on those mistakes, and others.

  The kost’s errand had taken him close to the Third Circle gate, the farthest he'd yet ventured from the ship. He’d returned to find the vessel gone. Sure that his troubles would join arms as woes often did, he'd followed the demons. Unknown interference blocked Teth’s flow, forcing him to proceed on foot. He’d left the mountains just in time to witness the pirates' intervention at the Freehold, but the Exodus had sped off to the east before he could reach it.