Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Read online

  “You have entered upon the Way of Teth: the fivefold discipline,” said Vaun. “The Way yields its secrets only to those of utmost diligence and strength of mind. I am bound to offer this final warning: the path ahead will challenge your most basic preconceptions. You will be required to question, and most likely reject, your deepest convictions. Such are the perils of seeking true knowledge.”

  Deim felt cold sweat beading on his forehead. Suppressing his fear by an act of will, he fixed his eyes on the black holes of Vaun's mask.

  “Time yet remains for you to turn back,” said Vaun. “If you choose now to leave the path, then we shall part amicably. But you will remain bound by the first rite never to tell what you have witnessed, on pain of death and worse than death. Do you understand?”

  Deim swallowed hard and said, “Yes.”

  “If you continue, Teth shall bind you from this day forward. Even if you forsake all practice of the discipline, your oath shall forever mark you. Now, what do you ask of me?”

  Deim spoke as though the words were wrenched from his throat. “Teach me!”

  The silence that followed perfected the chamber’s likeness to a crypt.

  “I do accept you,” the necromancer said at last. “Attend me, and I shall teach you the true nature of life and death; and how to make one into the other.”

  Deim's lips parted in a thin smile.

  Jaren woke in his quarters to find Eldrid at his bedside. The fog of sleep obscured his last waking memories, but terrible knowledge surfaced as his mind cleared.

  Eldrid clasped her hands over the bodice of her russet satin dress. “Thank the powers,” she breathed. “You were senseless as a stone!”

  Jaren replied with harsh laughter. Had she somehow known? Her confused expression argued against it. “I'm sorry,” he said, struggling to gather his wits. “How long was I out?”

  “Better than six hours. You must have had quite a shock.”

  “You've got that right,” Jaren said bitterly. He started to rise, but Eldrid pressed her hand against his chest.

  “You learned something from the stone”.

  “I'm not sure what happened,” Jaren said.

  “The object spoke to you. I would know what it said.”

  The captain sighed. “No offense, but I don’t think you're ready to know.”

  “I'm no simpleton,” Eldrid said. Her hazel eyes hardened. “You sought the priestess and the cube to uncover the baals’ treachery and annul your oath.”

  “Priestess?” Jaren repeated.

  “A mediatrix between the powers and the world, as you yourself aptly said.”

  That description fits Elena well enough, Jaren decided.

  “You fell as if stricken,” Eldrid said. “Either you despaired of escape from your vow, or you’ve uncovered a deception too horrible to bear.”

  Eldrid’s beauty had enchanted Jaren since they’d met. Now her determination won his respect. He clasped her hands in his. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I took you for a sheltered rustic. I won't make that mistake again.”

  Eldrid’s expression remained firm, but she blushed.

  “Just be patient a little longer,” Jaren said as he rose and strapped on his weapons. “I have some business to settle. Then I'll tell you everything.” He bent and kissed Eldrid's lips. She didn’t protest as he hurried from the room.

  The constant clamor of many hands at work was noticeably absent, adding to the dim halls’ loneliness. Of course, Jaren reminded himself. It's the sixth day. That was good. The end of the shipwrights' task played in his favor.

  The captain found Teg first. His swordarm had surprising news.

  “The king is stopping by this afternoon to give you a privateer's commission,” said Teg. “Good thing you'll be conscious to receive it.”

  “Wonderful,” Jaren said. “Are the shipwrights still here?”

  Teg nodded. “They're putting on the finishing touches, but we're back in business.”

  “Good. I need you to get them off the ship.”

  The mercenary cocked a golden eyebrow; then shrugged. “You got it. What kind of sendoff do they get—gentle or rough?”

  “Be polite,” said Jaren, “but if they give you trouble, consider them stowaways.”

  Teg nodded and set off down a branching corridor; his steel-clad boots clacking purposefully on the deck.

  Jaren's last stop was the engine room, where he found Nakvin settling Elena back into the misty domed chamber with its pervasive lightning scent. A strange unease nagged him when he saw the girl, who’d traded her casual clothes for an exquisite gown of Gen make.

  A gift from Eldrid, he thought. The white dress with its brocaded silk, long tapered sleeves, and pearl insets made Elena look more royal than Gelwin.

  Thinking of the king reminded Jaren of his errand. “Is she ready to go?” he asked.

  Nakvin met Jaren’s eyes for a moment; then quietly nodded.

  “Good,” Jaren said. He could read Nakvin’s contrition in her face. The rift in their friendship troubled him, but he had far more pressing concerns at the moment than healing it.

  “Do you know when Gelwin's coming?” Jaren asked.

  “In about an hour,” said Nakvin. Jaren fancied for a moment that he saw a subtle likeness between her and Elena, but he ascribed it to their similar garments.

  “Starting now, nobody boards the ship,” Jaren said. “Teg is ejecting the Gen Factors. He won't be long. Tell him to meet me in the hangar; Deim, too.”

  Jaren turned to leave, but Nakvin asked, “And me?”

  The captain hesitated before looking over his shoulder and giving a brusque nod. Then he hurried on his way.

  A company of soldiers had delivered Gelwin’s first summons to Jaren. A small army attended their second meeting, which took place on the Exodus’ doorstep.

  Jaren waited inside the enormous hangar with Eldrid, Teg, Deim, and Nakvin. The captain had shared his decision when they’d joined him there, and all of them knew their parts.

  Looking out over the troops assembled below, Jaren noted the picket of lances—their upright points and polished wooden hafts gleamed in the afternoon light. Gelwin's men presented the textbook image of an honor guard. Their ceremonial armor was intended to impress more than to defend. The lancers worried him less than the king's gamekeepers—more aptly called stalkers—and Jaren kept a close watch on the surrounding woods.

  Only two of those assembled below were mounted: the seneschal and Gelwin himself. Both men came dressed in the height of martial finery. The former walked his horse a few steps toward the massive black wall and raised his angular face to the hangar door.

  “Jaren Peregrine, captain of the Exodus!” the seneschal cried. “His Majesty, Gelwin of Avalon, Patriarch of the Golden Tribe, and last scion of the House of Twelve Moons, comes to pay his respects and to confer honors. Will you not bid him welcome?”

  “I can welcome him just fine from up here,” Jaren shouted back. A murmur swept through the crowd.

  “I claim no knowledge of the clay tribe’s customs,” the king's attendant said, “but His Majesty kindly received you into his house. Our tradition demands that you reciprocate.”

  “As His Majesty knows, we've had trouble with guests overstaying their welcome.”

  At this remark, the king himself rode forward. “We send you the finest artisans in our domain, and you turn them out like beggars when their service is done. Now you would deny their sovereign your hospitality?”

  “You sent artisans I didn't ask for and brought a guard of two hundred on a social call,” Jaren said. “And now I know why.” Glaring at Gelwin, he held a stone cube aloft for all to see.

  The soldiers muttered in confusion, and the seneschal gasped. Gelwin stared back at Jaren. The king’s face was stony, but weariness darkened his brown eyes. “We’d heard of your alliance with Sulaiman the last priest,” he said. “Did he bid the stones speak to you?”

  “Not the last,” Jaren said, “but yes
, the stone spoke to me. It told me what you're doing—what you’d make us do.”

  “Surely you know our peril,” said the king. “Avalon was built upon a Circle of hell. It can be returned to its first condition at the true lord’s whim.”

  “I've had experience with demonic bargains,” Jaren said, “so I understand your position. That doesn't mean I agree with it, and it sure as hell doesn't mean I'll cooperate.”

  “We stand bound by the tithe!” the seneschal pleaded. “If we cannot pay it, our home shall revert to the pit, and we will be damned forever. Would you visit that fate on your kin?”

  “I know about the tithe,” Jaren said. “You're the ones who agreed to it; not us.”

  Gelwin's face fell. “We have defaulted on our obligation these many years,” he said. “Ten in every generation, that was the price. The last several generations yielded fewer than ten, but they were taken all the same. Now we cannot pay even the least part, but the baal has agreed to cancel our debt when he receives your cargo.”

  Jaren's mouth twisted into a scowl. “These were Gen from the Middle Stratum,” he shouted, thrusting the cube toward Gelwin. “They had no part in your bargain!”

  “You refuse to surrender them, then?” the king asked, sounding sure of the answer.

  “I refuse to damn my people's souls to settle your debt.” Jaren said.

  “Please,” the seneschal said, his voice wavering. “If you fail to deliver the tithe, you will condemn still more of us.”

  Jaren's hand shook as he gripped the stone tighter. “I refuse to condemn my father!” he roared, his voice echoing over the hills. Eldrid gasped. Somewhere behind him, Nakvin did, too.

  Gelwin bowed his head. “It is done, then. We have no power to force your hand and will take our leave. But grant us one kindness in place of the greater boon which you have refused.”

  The seneschal produced an elegant rosewood box from his saddlebag and handed it to the king. Gelwin took the box in both hands and held it out in counterpoint to the cube.

  “We come bearing a royal letter of marque and reprisal” said the king, “commissioning Jaren Peregrine of the Fire Tribe to act on our behalf as captain of the ether-runner Exodus; with all the rights and privileges thereto, including seizing the ships and goods of our enemies.”

  “Have someone bring it up,” Jaren said.

  Gelwin passed the case to a page standing beside his horse. The messenger hastened toward the ship and climbed the inset rungs to the hangar. When his head reached the level of the deck, Teg stepped forward.

  “That's far enough,” the swordarm said.

  The page stopped and extended his hand. Jaren bent down to receive the box.

  Teg pivoted, and cursed as an arrow sprouted from his back. Jaren snatched the case from the page and kicked him in the face, casting him to the ground thirty feet below.

  “Back inside!” Jaren ordered as he dove to the deck, pushing Eldrid with him. When no one moved he looked up to see Nakvin and Deim staring wide-eyed at something beyond the door while Teg backed away as if dazed. He was about to ask the reason for their fear when a chorus of screams from the field below froze his blood.

  Jaren stood and saw the terror ascending the hillside. A billowing cloud like ink poured into water flowed up the slope, enveloping the horrified soldiers. Jaren felt its chill though he stood a hundred yards distant. A thick yellow mist preceded the miasma, accompanied by the mingled scents of gangrene and burning grass. The lancers tried to flee, but steep slopes and the hulk of the Exodus hemmed them in.

  A volley of arrows flew from the trees and vanished into the fog, which rolled onward without slowing. Below the hangar, a mob of soldiers fought tooth and nail for access to the ladder. Others climbed their comrades’ backs like steps.

  Teg rushed to the security console. The massive doors groaned in their tracks; drawing together slowly at first, but rapidly gaining speed. The closest man to the top had only ascended halfway when the hangar slammed shut with the empty resonance of a tomb. Jaren heaved a sigh of relief as the door silenced the chilling cries of men and horses.

  Teg rejoined the others. “We're secure,” he said, “at least for now.”

  “What about the secondary doors?” Jaren asked.

  “They're up against the hillside,” said Teg. “Nobody's getting in that way.”

  The captain turned to his crew. Nakvin and Deim still looked shaken. Eldrid returned his look with bewildered concern.

  “What dread vision is this?” she asked. “You look as if you've seen your deaths.”

  “We have seen this before,” Nakvin said.

  The color drained from Eldrid’s face. “You have?”

  “A whole squad of Guild Inspectors was guarding our ship Ambassador's Island,” said Deim. “By the time we got there, nothing was left but cold air and a sharp smell.”

  “He followed us,” Jaren growled. “I don't know how, but he's here.”

  Eldrid’s dark curls whipped as she looked to Jaren. “Who followed you?”

  “Fallon,” said Teg, evoking a shudder from all four pirates.

  “Quite right, Master Cross,” Vaun said as he stepped from the corridor. “The kost will remove all obstacles to the completion of his task—including you.”

  51

  Jaren took Eldrid aside when they reached the first intersection. Nakvin ran past them, heading toward the engine room with Teg close behind.

  “Go to my cabin,” Jaren said. “Don’t stop running till you’re inside. Lock the door, and wait for me.”

  Eldrid advanced a few steps before casting a stricken glance back over her shoulder. Then she hiked up her russet skirts and ran.

  Jaren saw Deim sprinting toward him from the hangar. “Get us in the air!” he barked at the junior steersman before chasing after Nakvin and Teg.

  Panic turned Deim’s dark eyes to live coals. “She needs me,” he said. “He’s waking up!”

  Jaren grabbed his steersman by the lapels. “Gelwin’s men can’t even slow that thing down. Either we’re gone before it’s done with them, or we are dead!” He let Deim go and ran without looking back.

  Soon, the corridor trembled as the ship’s drifters rose from their long slumber. Deim got us off the ground, Jaren thought, but he can't fly us out of the Circle. He reached the hallway outside the engine room to find Teg at the hatch and Nakvin catching her breath.

  “What were you thinking, running off alone like that?” Jaren asked. “Elena's safer in there than we are out here!”

  “Exactly,” the lady Steersman said between heaving breaths. “That's why we need to get inside with her.”

  Teg must have had the same thought. He tried opening the hatch but winced and clutched his left arm.

  “Let me see that,” Nakvin said as she examined the shaft lodged in Teg’s shoulder blade.

  “How bad is it?” Jaren asked.

  “The wound’s closing,” Nakvin said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “It’s pushing the arrow out.” She completed the process; removing the metal barb with a deft motion of her hand. Teg grunted in discomfort.

  Jaren grabbed the white silk of Nakvin’s sleeve, and the arrow clattered to the deck. “We don't have time for this!” he said. “You need to get on the Wheel and get us out of here.”

  “That's suicide. If we go back, we might run into the kost!”

  “What’s a cost?” Teg asked, filtering the word through his Kethan accent.

  “That’s kost,” Nakvin said. “It rhymes with washed.”

  “What are we?” asked Teg. “Does it rhyme with tucked?”

  Jaren glared at his Steersman. “If you know anything, now’s the time to share.”

  “Just fairytale stuff,” Nakvin said, “like the kost who hid his soul in a jewel.”

  Teg's brow furrowed. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because it made him practically unkillable,” Nakvin said flatly.

  Deciding that the time for valor had passed, Jaren
tried the engine room hatch, but the wheel wouldn’t budge. “The door's locked!”

  “Oh, obstinate youth,” said a voice like a freezing waterfall.

  A gaunt blond figure in black business attire emerged from the corridor. Jaren had the rodcaster in his hand before his foe took another step. His trigger finger tightened, but invisible hands tore the massive gun away and sent it skidding into the darkness.

  Fallon slowly shook his head. Jaren couldn’t help but stare into the abyssal wells that served him for eyes. “Here is ignorance beyond instruction,” Fallon said as he approached, and the cold of deep winter preceded him.

  Jaren’s thoughts froze as the kost advanced, but the groan of hinges roused his wits.

  “Hurry!” Teg shouted from beside the open hatch. Nakvin bolted through the door, and Jaren raced after her. Teg came last and sealed the entrance to their hazy, rose-colored refuge. “I doubt anything's coming through that,” he said.

  “What about the others?” Jaren asked.

  Nakvin laid her hands on her hips. “'What about Eldrid?' you mean.”

  Jaren glared at her. “No one on board is safe until we stop that thing!”

  “Stop it?” said Teg. “We barely got away from it!”

  “There has to be a way,” Jaren said.

  “Sure there is,” said Teg, “but we don’t have it. Your rodcaster's out in the hall somewhere, and I'm unarmed. Plus, judging by the fumes that thing gives off, I bet it could drink Nakvin's venom like a cordial.”

  “Can you convince him to leave?” Jaren asked her.

  “My glamers were written for the living,” she said. “They worked on some of the Freeholders, but Fallon’s a whole other kind of dead.”

  “What about Workings?”

  “Offensive Workings are Deim's department.”

  “All right,” Jaren said. “We still have a chance if there’s enough ether. You two—”

  Jaren was cut off by a deep rumble that grew until it shook the hatch and the wall around it. Rending metal screeched above the tremors. At last the whole bulkhead buckled and gave way. A voice—like Fallon’s but greatly magnified—emanated from the dark cloud that obscured the corridor. “Hear me,” it roared like an arctic wind blasting across desolate tundra. “I will kill you: every one.”