Soul Hosts Read online

  Chapter 5

  Coppers and Bronzes

  It’s there around you. Like air, everywhere, yet easy to miss. - Kolram

  --

 

  The next day was an unseasonably warm autumn day in the city of Vilanos, the type of day that made Wayden's circumstances almost bearable. Through the doorway, he could see the broad leaves on the horse chestnut tree donning their brightest red. Sunlight blanketed him and the warmth of it was medicine for his soul. He and Rif followed the other orphans into the yard.

  Wayden took a step… and Rory's beefy hand grabbed his cloaked arm. "Not you, Toast: floor duty.” Rory gestured at the mop and bucket of water in the corner of the main room. “The Draconess is coming, we need this placed tip top."

  Wayden's heart sank faster than a rowboat hit by a two-ton boulder. "Why me?"

  Rory leant towards him and whispered, “Shouldn’t have told Crag about me love letters, should you?”

  Rif turned around in the doorway, the sunlight painting him with an angelic glaze. "I'll m-m-mop, sir."

  "There’s your evil Tulkarian," Kolram said. "Except this one tries to take the arrow for you."

  Rory glowered at Rif. "Did I ask ya? Get out in the yard with the others and do the weeding, before I belt your scrawny arse." Rory lifted his hand and Rif scurried off.

  Wayden, a fire of anger ablaze in his chest, grabbed the mop. He swabbed the floor as if it were an enemy that needed bludgeoning. "This is Rory." He thrust again. "Gar Skymaster." And again. "The Ozac that killed Nanny. The Tulkarian archer. Anaz. Crag. Rory, Rory, Rory. Why aren't I allowed outside? Why does life always give me the burnt slice of toast?"

  "Rif tried to take the mopping duty for you,” Kolram said, “Kazor stood up for Rif. ’Tis true, some are cruel, and more apathetic, but do not lose sight of the beauty in this world."

  "Beauty? You see beauty in this place?"

  "It’s there around you. Like air, everywhere, yet easy to miss. It’s in the ruby-red leaves on the chestnut tree, the patterns in its bark, in the caress of the sunlight. It's in Rif and it's in you."

  "All I see are burnt slices of bread, Cook's warts, and dingy floorboards."

  Wayden mopped another stroke, this time imagining smashing Kolram with his stick. Too bad Kolram was already dead. Or was he? He was awfully talkative for a dead guy.

  “I suppose I need a new category for my status." Kolram mused.

  "Mostly dead? Life challenged?" Wayden suggested.

  "Elegant suggestions. I thank you heartily. Perhaps Kolram will suffice for the present."

  “That’s it! Kolram the stiff!”

  “No.”

  Teasing Kolram and the exertion of mopping improved Wayden's mood a drop, which was more than it did for the floor. "Master Rory, this isn't getting any cleaner. Can I get some more soap?" There was hardly enough of it in the bucket of dirty water.

  Rory mocked Wayden's voice, in a soprano, "Master Rory, can I please get some soap? Y’ain't in your manor anymore. Put some muscles into it, Lord Toast!”

  Wayden put muscle into it: This is Rory. This is Rory. And this is Rory. Perhaps Rory's next love letter might read differently than dictated. ‘Dearest Honey Suckle. You look like an Ozac’s back end.’ The idea made Wayden smile.

  "What you smiling at, Toast?" Master Crag sauntered in, chewing tobacco. Master Crag sauntered in, chewing tobacco, brand new, towering, quadruple-brimmed hat adorned with pink feathers teetered on his head. Wayden bit back a laugh at Crag's fashion statement.

  Crag glowered at Wayden. "What are you staring at, Toast?"

  "An excellent question,” Kolram said. “What in the world are we staring at?"

  “A pig dressed as a peacock,” Wayden suggested. "You know what, you're right, Kolram. There is beauty in the world, and his name is Crag."

  Kolram chuckled. “He does make quite a striking figure.”

  "Sorry, sir,” Wayden said aloud. “Just admiring your hat."

  "Well, I suppose I can't fault you for that,” Crag said, looking pleased. “But there is no time for hat-gazing. The Draconess is coming," He hung his pink-feathered atrocity on a hook. "Clear the mugs, wipe the table, and lay a cloth. This place better be spotless when she arrives."

  Wayden shook his head. If his mother had been preparing for a visit from a dignitary half the rank of the Draconess, she'd have hired extra staff a month early to have the manor scoured from top to bottom. Crag had one of his orphans tidying for a few moments before she arrived. And no doubt Wayden would be blamed if the Draconess complained of the slightest bit of mess.

  Wayden put the mop away and busied himself tidying. It always surprised Wayden that anyone of the Draconess's stature would bother to visit this dump, but the Draconess seemed to enjoy it. For her, it seemed a chance to show off her charitable instincts.

  Wayden’s favorite part of these biannual visits was that the Draconess brought her fifteen year-old step-daughter Jazlyn. There was beauty in the world, and her name was Jazlyn. When Wayden wasn't dreaming of killing Gar Skymaster, he fantasized about sailing down a river in a boat with Jazlyn. He would run his fingers through her long, red curls and kiss the freckles on the back of her neck.

  Wayden was examining the room, to see if he’d missed a spot, when the front door opened.

  Rory announced, “Her Royal Highness approaches."

  Crag donned his multi-brimmed hat and straightened the lacy collar of his doublet.

  Rory held the door open. Wayden could hear a parade of footsteps. A drummer beat on his tenor drum and a trumpet blared. A Herald entered, tapped the butt of his staff on the ground and announced, "All hail her radiance the Draconess, daughter of Kero, granddaughter of Borleat, first lady of the Drakindom of Helos, the Red Land of Fire and Light."

  The Draconess swept into the room. Her long, auburn hair swayed against the back of her silk scarlet gown. Her blue eyes had a halo of scarlet-henna eye shadow highlighting them. It was a wonder she could see where she was going, for she kept her dimpled chin aloft. The tail of her gown was a lengthy train, carried by two maidens.

  Crag and Wayden sank to their knees. Rory, while holding the door with his back, moved his fingers to lips, forehead, and finally heart. "May the fire guide you."

  "May your ember forever glow," the Draconess replied, moving her fingers in the reverse order: first her forehead, then heart, and finally her lips.

  A line of guards followed the Draconess into the room, one bearing a banner with a dragon on it, a second a horn, and a third a drum. The chief of the guards was the illustrious Sir Cay Longreach, a Royal Companion, one of the Ten, the illustrious Dragon Knights. His long blond hair was tucked into a serpent-head silver helm and an ornate hilt poked up from his scabbard. It would be something to ride with the likes of Sir Longreach and Swiftrider. Perhaps one day Wayden would ride with them to Raslo and return with the head of Gar Skymaster.

  The last guard to enter gave Wayden chills, an Ozac much larger and a darker gray than Anaz. The nightmarish memory resurfaced: the huge Ozac’s foot splintering the door, its shattered frame jetting out like long wooden knives. The huge Ozac pushed past their rickety barricade, a spiked mace in hand and a maniac glimmer in his cold eyes.

  Except for the eyes, this one could have been the other’s brother. He was hairless and huge, arms as thick as logs, a tree-trunk sized neck, and a body that could camouflage a boulder.

  Then Wayden’s insides went from cold to hot.

  Jazlyn entered, red hair in plaits that spiraled round her head like a ginger halo. Her golden gown boomed outwards at the bottom and its bodice was embroidered with a dragon.

  The herald tapped his staff again. "All hail Princess Jazlyn, daughter Draconi, daughter of Niar, granddaughter of Lochaius, blessed be her embers."

  The Daughter Draconi brought in with her the dazzle of autumn leaves and summer sun, mixed with the cool eyes of winter.

  Wayden sighed. "Jazlyn alway
s looks so elegant."

  “But she wears no hat at all,” Kolram said. "She needs more brims."

  “Jazlyn might even pull off Crag’s outfit.”

  “Now, that I doubt.”

  Following the guards, maids, and royalty was Fire-Whisperer Dade, wearing his crimson veil, and two acolytes in maroon cloaks, carrying parchments.

  The Draconess gestured that the bowing could end. Crag pulled out her chair for her. "We are honored that a person of your magnomiouness would visit us in person."

  "Magnomiouness is not a word, Crag. I do enjoy coming here, though. I like to see with mine own eyes the good I have wrought."

  The Draconess, Dade, and the two acolytes sat at the other end of the table from Crag.

  Crag smiled. “Would Your Majesty care for tea and biscuits?”

  "From your cook? I think not," the Draconess said. "By the way, what is that ridiculous thing perched upon your head? Would you kindly take it off?"

  Crag's smile wilted as he removed his hat. "Yes, Your Majesty. I-I-I wore it to amuse you."

  "Very funny, Crag."

  Crag thrust his hat into Wayden's hands. Wayden hung the silky abomination back upon the hook.

  The Draconess studied Wayden. "Ah, look at this happy child. It is so good to make a difference in the lives of misfits. Where would this poor boy be, without our most generous patronage? More than likely slitting someone's throat in a dark alley. Oh, I do enjoy coming here, so uplifting, after the most tedious morning of demands upon our coffer."

  "I'm afraid we must ask for coin as well," Crag said, with a wide smile. "Silver and gold is what pays the bills, after all."

  "Copper and bronze are often sufficient. I pray your request is of a modest nature. The new army commander requested such hordes of treasure that he would have me canceling all galas to buy clunky armor and rusted swords."

  "Clunky armor and rusty swords are what he is trying to replace," Fire-Whisperer Dade said. "I don't think Sir Longreach here would care to go into battle with a shield that will buckle."

  The Draconess turned to Crag. “Treasurer Dade is another who would sell my jewels and finery. We have a dragon, what more defense do we need? True, Volkanus is ill, but our Beast Tongue assures me he will fare better soon."

  "I believe what Beast Mistress Belza said was that she hoped-" Dade began.

  “Enough, Dade! Hasn't this morning been trying enough without you ruining the afternoon? I should sell your veil and robes and let you parade around naked. Perhaps that would drive sense into you."

  Dade sniffed. "My apologies, Your Majesty. Shall we proceed, then? The accounts, Master Crag?"

  “Of course, I have them right here,” Crag showed Dade a blotchy, yellow parchment, dotted with jam and coffee stains. Dade and the acolytes studied the papers. “As you can see, we have forty orphans and the price-"

  One of the acolytes produced a scroll of figures. He cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, if I may.” His finger trailed down a parchment. “And our count shows you have seventeen orphans.”

  Crag stammered, “I-I-I must have… miscalculated. I was never clever with numbers.”

  Dade’s eyes narrowed. “No, I must admit. That was not clever in the slightest.”

  Jazlyn edged towards Wayden. Wayden was so close to the princess, he could feel the heat emanating from her. Of course, it was foolishness to have a crush on anyone, much less someone of such a high station. Wayden was a penniless orphan, and a scarred monstrosity to boot.

  Wayden was only half-conscious of Dade in the background. "Master Crag. The state of your accounts has not improved since our last visit.”

  "I'm sorry," Crag said, "I have a new man, Anaz. Very good with numbers. He can help me. It will be better next time, I promise."

  Jazlyn whispered from the corner of her mouth, "You, Burnt Boy."

  Wayden pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. "Me?"

  Jazlyn raised an imperious eyebrow, but kept her voice soft. "Do you see any other burnt boys around here?"

  "No. It's just... I didn't expect anyone so beautiful to talk to me. Ah... I didn’t mean to call you beautiful. Not that you're not beautiful. You are beautiful, but-"

  "I must request you save your elegant courtesies for a later date, preferably the seventh of never." Jazlyn raised her chin as she spoke. Her nose was so thin, he wondered how she could ever blow it. Did royalty generate mucus? "Show me around, immediately. I'd like to meet Crag’s grandmother. Take me to her."

  The Draconess looked up from the parchments of figures. She stood up, her face puckering into an hourglass shape. "Jazlyn, whatever are you up to?"

  "Stepmother, I request that this boy tour me around the orphanage. I would like to see the great good we have wrought here."

  "Have you taken leave of your senses? I absolutely forbid it."

  Jazlyn gave her stepmother a pleading look. "Org can accompany us." She gestured to the Ozac bodyguard. "I’ll be perfectly safe."

  “Wouldn’t it be a special thing to allow this pitiful boy a chance to feel special?” Jazlyn gestured towards Wayden, and as she did, the tips of her fingers brushed against Wayden. Wayden felt the pulsating flashes that meant the Glimpse was about to fill his mind. He grew dizzy and felt like he was falling.

  Wayden expected to see Jazlyn’s memories. Instead, bizarrely, he found himself in a memory of the Immortal Asgaroth, the Bone King. He was inside an ornate palace chamber. Over a fireplace hung a painting of a red-haired woman. Asgaroth sat across a marble table from his handsome, dark-haired son, Dakarth. The two of them studied a tactical game, pewter pawns upon movable tiles shaped like various landscapes. They sat on tall stools fashioned of bone. Torches hung in sconces along the stone walls.

  Through the windows, the wind and the wolves howled. Only one moon was out, the orange one, and light fell in slivers through a window slatted with iron bars. While they played their war game, Karsgoth painted a watercolor prophecy at a nearby wooden table. Karsgoth had the same handsome face, dark hair and eyes and chiseled cheekbones of his father and brother.

  Dakarth sacrificed a game piece to empower his wizard to flip a tile, allowing his knight to capture Asgaroth's flag. Asgaroth smiled. “The son surpasses the father.”

  Dakarth returned the smile. “You taught me well, father.”

  "I've raised both my sons well," Asgaroth said, gesturing towards Karsgoth who was working on one of his watercolor prophecies. "Dakarth you’re a brilliant tactician and Karsgoth's powers of prophecy surpass my own."

  "Speaking of which," Karsgoth said, cleaning his paintbrush. "The Source has painted another prophecy through me."

  Asgaroth stepped warily towards the easel. Would it show him being trapped again? Indeed, the watercolor showed amber Guardian snakes surrounding a skeleton with a crown. It was the same theme as the last three of his prophecies. Asgaroth kicked the easel over, sending the water colors dripping across the floor. "The wraiths take Centuron! The same prophecy again. We killed more than half the Guardians and still we see it."

  "Wiping out half the Guardians just made the other half angrier and more likely to fulfill the prophecy," Dakarth said. "Prophecies are as slippery as snakes. Your attempt to avoid them is what traps you in the end."

  "Curse of the Wraith! Is there nothing we can do to escape this, then? Am I doomed to be entombed in Guardian magic?" Asgaroth asked.

  Karsgoth's breath formed a cloud as he spoke. "What cannot be eluded must be embraced. It is this second portrait that I wanted you to see."

  Karsgoth’s second picture displayed the huge green moon of a Three Moons' Night. The light from the emerald orb formed into the shape of a key. Karsgoth and Dakarth were pulling Asgaroth out from a pool of amber snakes. All around them were bleeding, brown-robed men.

  "It appears that Dakarth and I shall find a way to free you," Karsgoth said.

  "But when? How?" Asgaroth asked. "Who are these dead men? Guardians? Why are some of the
m missing fingers?"

  He did not like the feeling of not knowing, not being in control. His own prophecy powers were minimal, and he felt as vulnerable as a blind man dancing on a cliff’s edge.

  Karsgoth shook his head. "As to that I have no answers."

  The memory dissipated, leaving Wayden dizzy with disbelief. He’d seen Asgaroth's memories- not Jazlyn's. It made no sense. Could she host Asgaroth, as he hosted Kolram? How? He didn't feel the pull towards her, the way he did towards Rif and Mavik. Wayden, disorientated and confused, slipped on the still-damp floor, landing against Jazlyn's shoulder, almost knocking her off her feet.

  "Get off me!" Jazlyn shouted, pulling away from him.

  Dragon Knight Cay Longreach rushed over and shoved Wayden against the wall. Longreach drew a sword, a glowing blue blade that could cut through plate armor. "Draconess, shall I end the wretch?"

  The Draconess puckered her lips into the semblance of a trout. "The boy is a fool, but it was unintentional. Still, Crag, I’ve no idea why you have this strange misfit here, terrifying us with fainting spells. Have you been feeding this boy? What do you do with my funds?” She offered her hand to Dade, who helped her up. “And Jazlyn, we shall speak of your behavior in private. We shall take our leave. We shall withhold funds till our next visit. Our acolytes will come again in a week. If you have the accounts straightened out by then, fine. If not, perhaps this Anaz you mention can be the new head of the orphanage."

  Wayden wasn't sure he liked that idea. Who knew what the Ozac Strand Prophet was up to?

  Crag pleaded. "Your Majesty, please forgive me. I had no idea this would happen."

  The Draconess sniffed and headed out the door, her parade of servants trailing behind her. Crag followed, still begging her forgiveness.

  When the door closed, Rory shoved Wayden so hard he slipped again, his world a swirl of confusion.