Soul Hosts Read online

  Chapter 4

  The Red Screw

  Ah, that clears it up then. I'm a red screw. – Wayden

  --

  Wayden had only just fallen asleep when the ring-a-ding-ding of Cook’s breakfast bell roused him.

  The orphans leapt up and raced for the stairwell. The larger Dariuses shoved the smaller ones out of the way. Pulling rotted rushes from his tangled hair, Wayden stumbled downstairs, half asleep.

  He waited in line, watching the best pieces of bread being snatched. When Wayden and Rif finally had their turn, Cook handed Wayden a burnt piece of bread and Rif a moldy one.

  "Toast for Toast and... purple-mold bread for the Tulkarian." Cook laughed.

  Charcoal crumbs fell from the crust as Wayden bit into the blackened bread. Kazor broke off two corners of his bread and handed one to Wayden and the other to Rif.

  “Why are you being so k–k-kind?” Rif asked.

  Kazor shrugged. “Being kind is all I got left.”

  Wayden felt his face flush; remembering how Kazor had stood up for Rif the previous evening, while he himself had done nothing.

  "I hope one day I can be like Kazor," Wayden thought.

  "Hoping is the first step to making it so,” Kolram replied.

  “Toast!” Cook called out. “You’re on dish duty!”

  With a sigh, Wayden reached his hand through the doorknob hole half expecting a pair of tongs to seize him again.

  "What do you think Anaz's game is?” Wayden asked Kolram, while scrubbing a dish. “Why doesn’t he just turn me in to the Fire Guard?”

  “You might need to employ a method most desperate: asking. Though my anatomy is gone, I am a fellow male, and therefore understand your hesitation to debase yourself by using primitive methods such as communication. However, there are times when one must swallow one's pride and simply ask."

  For Wayden, it was more skepticism than pride. Why would Anaz reveal his intentions now if he hadn’t done so already?

  The last of the dishes done, Wayden left Cook and headed upstairs. Crag, Cook, Rory, and Anaz each had their own chambers on the third floor. The Ozac occupied the room that had belonged to Night’s former maid. The maid had been of the Sunken Faith, and a piece of Driftwood was still nailed to her door.

  “Communication.” Wayden shook his head. “Like this will work.”

  Wayden’s skepticism turned to curiosity at the sound of a woman’s voice from behind Anaz’s door.

  "Both of them? Here?" The woman’s voice had the deep accent distinct to Mantus.

  “The Gods above have indeed shone upon us!" Anaz said.

  “There is no mistake this time? You are sure?" the Mantu asked.

  "He looks exactly the same," Anaz said. "Except..."

  "Except what?"

  "In my vision, the boy didn't have a burn mark, but I only glimpsed the side of his face."

  A prophecy about me? Was that what brought Anaz here?

  "And the other?" the Mantu asked.

  "A short Tulkarian boy, with seashells braided in his hair. And the Fire Guard brought him right here for me."

  “The boy who will breathe out souls. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  Wayden shook his head. They’re as mad as Night. The boy who would breathe souls? Rif could breathe souls in, not out. It made no sense. Crag’s door, a few steps away from Wayden, rattled and began to open. There was no time to run away.

  Master Crag stood in the doorway. "Spying, Toast?"

  With one hand, Crag grabbed Wayden’s wrist and squeezed. His breath stank of whiskey. Crag was always most dangerous when drunk.

  "I was just..." Wayden's mind spun, seeking an excuse.

  Then Rory's door swung open. "What's going on?"

  In a flash, he thought of an excuse. "Ah, Master Rory. I'm here to write your love letter."

  Rory's face turned crimson.

  Crag let out a loud laugh, releasing Wayden’s wrist. "A love letter." He slapped his side and snot bubbled in his nose. "A love letter!"

  --

  That afternoon, Wayden was sweeping the main room when Healer Berik and his daughter arrived for one of their monthly visits.

  “Ah, welcome, Lordship. Mistress Night hasn’t been doing well lately,” Cook said, pushing open the knob-less door to the scullery.

  Berik ducked as he followed Cook into the kitchen.

  Wayden tried to catch some words of Berik and Cook’s conversations, but it was primarily about Night and dosages and Wayden soon lost interest. Berik's daughter, Verica, a girl about Wayden’s age, sat on a stool in the corner of the main room fingering her golden mumbly ball, looking bored. Beneath her curly red bangs, Wayden glimpsed her infamous scar. That dark gash had been the source of more speculation than the Striker himself. It seemed to sparkle, as if when you peered into it, you were seeing the night sky. Other times, it seemed to hold a black liquid in it, thick and viscous like bubbling tar.

  Big Darius suspected Verica was a devil, while Handsome thought a wraith possessed her. Rory claimed it was because Berik practiced black magic, whereas Crag theory was it was advanced Kaldian science. Wayden didn’t know what it was, but it sure made his skin prickle.

  The boys had been warned not to mention the scar, not even to look at it. One of the former orphans, Stiff Darius, had called her a freak in front of Healer Berik and was put out on the streets.

  “Don’t stare at it,” Wayden told himself. “Don’t stare at it.”

  The girl met his gaze. “What are you looking at, burnt boy?”

  Wayden’s cheeks grew warm. “Sorry.”

  “It’s alright. What’s your name? Burnt Darius?” Verica threw him the ball.

  “Wayden. I’m from Templeton,” he said, missing the ball, which Verica retrieved on a bounce. Wayden was as common in Templeton as Darius was in Vilanos. Wayden the Wanderer had created the most commonly used maps of the world, having ridden from northern Helos to all four walls of the world.

  Wayden tried not to look at the scar, but it seemed his eyes gravitated there on their own accord. The scar didn’t look like the night sky or bubbling tar. It was more like staring into a campfire that shed darkness instead of light.

  “Well, Wayden. Fair trade. You want to know how I got my scar, and I want to know how you got that burn mark.” She threw the ball to him again. This time he caught it.

  Could he bare his soul to a stranger? She was right though, it was fair. He sighed and threw the ball back. She snatched it effortlessly.

  “Alright,” Wayden said, determined to give her the driest account possible of the day his world ended. “When I was little, Sky Raiders pillaged my town. They torched our home. We escaped through the back door, but a burning chunk of the rafters landed on me as we ran through the scullery. Hurt worse than a bee down the britches. What about you?"

  “There was an accident. When I was little. An explosion in my father's laboratory. They had to stitch me back together.”

  “But why is it black?" The words leapt out of Wayden’s mouth before he could stop them. "I’ve never seen a scar like that.” Wayden wondered if he'd gone too far. Would he be joining Stiff Darius out on the street?

  “My father used advanced Kaldian techniques to save me.”

  “Impossible,” Kolram said.

  “I thought in Kaldia they had all sorts of things we don’t have: fireworks, wind-up clocks, wood prints―”

  “No, this is something far beyond fireworks."

  The Draconess's Healer emerged from the scullery just as Crag wobbled down the stairs, a half-empty bottle of brandy in his hand.

  "Ah, Lord Healer Berik! Glad you could finally make it!" Crag took a chug from his bottle and let out a belch. "Did you get the dosages worked out? My grandma is acting even stranger of late- ranting about soul mists and Asgaroth and Three Moons' Night and all sorts of things. We’ve been through more maids than half the gigolos in Helos."

  Verica perked u
p. “What did she say about Asgaroth? About Three Moon’s Night?”

  “What business is this of yours, Verica?” Berik said. “Mind your place. Adults are speaking.”

  Verica reddened. Wayden empathized. She couldn’t have been far from Wayden’s age, yet her father treated her like a babe in swaddling clothes.

  Berik proceeded into a diatribe about dosages and medications. Wayden was more interested in Verica. Why would Verica be as interested in Asgaroth and Three Moons' Night? If only Wayden could find some way to speak with Verica in private. But how? She lived far away in the distant volcanic palace.

  --

  The next day, Wayden went again to speak to Anaz. This time, as he hesitated at the threshold, he overheard no conversations.

  If I want to be a hero, be a hero. He knocked. He hoped he wouldn’t regret this.

  "Come in," Anaz called.

  In the center of the room was a Raslonian Mobile, a hodge-podge of wires, screws, bolts, plaster, linens and strips of metal crisscrossing in every direction. Shaping tools, measuring cups, and buckets, dirtied with remnants of white plaster, littered the floor.

  "Ah, Wayden. How are you?" Anaz said, with a smile that revealed two inch fangs.

  Wayden feigned calmness, he hid his trembling hands in his pockets. “Good evening, Sir.” Now how to get him to talk? Use a lie to catch a liar. “Is your sister still visiting?”

  “My sister?”

  “Well, I assume she was your sister. I heard you speaking with a woman the other day.” Now to see if he takes the bait.

  “Ah, yes, you heard that. I thought I heard a mouse creeping outside my door. I see the walls of the orphanage have ears and wagging tongues. No, my sister had to return to the beautiful snowy plains of Raslo. Only passing through, alas.”

  Got you. "Ah, so your sister is a Mantu? Is your mother an Ozac and a Mantu then?"

  Anaz narrowed his eyes, stepping over to a peg where his sword belt hung. "You try me, boy. She is my half-sister, and a half-Mantu, if you must know. Who are you to question me like the Helesian Fire Guard?"

  He can’t frighten me with that big sword. He said himself, if he wanted me dead, he’d have done it by now. “Why did you follow me?"

  "Why would I be following an orphan boy?" Anaz asked, fingering the hilt. “I simply happened to notice you had gotten yourself into trouble in the alleyway and decided to help you out. Is that so wrong?”

  "Just helping me out. I see. Probably a coincidence that you showed up here right after and took a job for no pay."

  "I'm not your enemy, Wayden."

  "You're not my friend either."

  "No...I'm not your friend. But you serve my purpose. Observe this mobile."

  Wayden studied the sculpture. "It’s beautiful.”

  Anaz gestured to the mobile and tapped a tiny, red screw at the center of the wires. “This is you.”

  Wayden threw up his hands. "Ah, that clears it up then. I'm a red screw. I had thought I might be a blue nail for a while, so thanks."

  Anaz laughed. "Wayden, Wayden, Wayden. There is a time for talking and a time for listening. I’ll say this once.” Anaz leaned in, his red eyes and gray skin inches from Wayden. His breath smelled of fire salmon and onion. “When things are balanced, they must stay balanced. To tell you more would be like loosening the screw. It’s a link. Would the sculpture stay in place? Perhaps, but maybe not.” He grabbed Wayden by the arm and dragged him towards the door. “I've said as much as I can or will. Now go."

  Another prophet speaking of junctures, like his brother Mavik and Mistress Night. They were cropping up like weeds. What was the good of prophets anyway?

  The day prior to the Sky Raider attack Mavik had painted one of his watercolor prophecies. It was of a one-eyed vulture with the bloody beak, standing over his mother who was clutching a red flower to her dress. They had known something bad was coming, but had that stopped the Skymaster’s raiders from destroying Wayden’s home, the Tulkarian from firing the arrow? Had it froze the blood that flowed from her wound? No. All he had done was foreseen it, a red flower blooming on her dress.