Chapter 6
Idescend into the grand ballroom, hovering above ladders angled every which way. Preparations for the Winter Rave are underway; bondslaves in black garb are cleaning, maids in crimson dresses are hanging silk streamers, and professional muralists are gluing gems on the biggest wall in the likeness of Rebelia, the goddess of hypnotic dance. Not to be confused with her mother, Scientia, the goddess of—
What’s she the goddess of? I used to care more about the gods before I died. Anything besides killing or consuming souls is hard to contemplate now, as if the deathwalker inside me has taken more space than his share.
As usual, Rebelia is half-naked in a red two-piece with loose golden hair and eyes as black as the walls behind her.
My own memories of the Winter Rave tickle the back of my consciousness. The biggest, showiest, drunken sex-fest to kick off the King’s Duel Tournament. Preparations for it take weeks.
As I float about, the fireplaces and dagger-like chandeliers greet me with a sense of belonging as if the castle is whispering, “Welcome home.”
Except it’s no longer my home. My mother is dead, my sister is probably dead, and my ex-wife—
No human things, I remind myself. Especially awful human things like my ex, Kathreen. Floating about this painfully familiar room, noticing the empty thrones on the dais, I can’t help relishing the thought of shredding Mazzar’s soul once I deal with his daughter.
I’m about to jet to another wing of the castle in search of the pure soul when two maids emerge from the grand archway, cradling a giant black streamer between them, and discussing rebels. They tote the streamer to the tallest ladder, centered in the middle of the room, its apex directly under the curved ceiling.
“All I’m saying,” the taller one whispers, grabbing a low rung and booting her foot up, “is the rebels are getting stronger. A group made it past the palace walls a few months back. With guns.”
The other maid holds the ladder while her friend climbs up, pulling the nose of the silk streamer toward the domed ceiling. Their memories poke at my mind, centering around manual labor, petty jealousies, and pining for Mazzar’s favor. The shadows would devour these women in seconds.
“But what do they want?”
The tall one, peering down over her shoulder, pauses halfway up the ladder. “Rumors say they want revenge for King Dagen,” she says before continuing toward the top.
Some long-forgotten sense of duty and pride flickers in my chest at the mention of rebels fighting in my name, but I quickly snuff it out.
Such dangerous things, feelings.
“Still?” The shorter one calls up the ladder, a giggle on her lips.
The taller maid reaches the top and fastens the acrobat streamer to the domed ceiling before shooting a look down. “You know the history of the Barrens,” she calls. “If that wasteland doesn’t speak of the Zarr’s ability to hold grudges, I don’t know what does.”
The short one smirks, waiting for her friend to climb back down before elbowing her in the side and saying, “How about your ability to never forgive your mother?”
The tall one scowls, adjusting the silky tail now flirting with the black floor. “I have every right to hold that grudge. She spent my dowry on my sister’s wedding gown!”
They go on, droning on about gossipy things as they fetch the next streamer. The monster inside me urges to tear them apart and consume their meager souls; but with some effort, I’m able to move to a corner and rest my ghostly boots on the ground, letting them live.
My invisible hand brushes the stone wall, and I close my eyes, taking in the room. There’re no shadows hungry for my soul. No ice leaching into my skin, or glaciers cracking in the distance. No screams, and no bitter wind.
Slowly, the bustling feet and dragging of silk, supplies, and ladders becomes more than just sounds.
If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine it, almost taste the sweetness of it.
Freedom.
Whatever it takes, I will capture the pure soul. No force in existence is dragging me back to Baratrum in this century.
In this room full of busy castle staff, I begin investigating. Memories and desires flow through me from all directions.
So much life. So much information.
I see Mazzar, his wife, and two daughters through their memories.
I see his chosen heiress, Nizzara. In one memory she’s threatening the slave master with a dagger, ordering him to send a bondslave to clean her rooms. In others, I see her fighting in duels, overseeing tax courts, and speaking to everyone with sharp, bratty snark.
What a little beast.
I lift off the ground and soar through the hall, searching for her, when I’m surprised to see my portrait still hanging in its gem-studded frame, in line with all the Zarr kings before me.
I haven’t aged since the portrait was made. I’m still twenty-six, but Baratrum has had its way with my appearance. My short beard is brittle, my lips are cracked from cold winds, and death clings to my eyes, just as it does to all deathwalkers, like a cold wall of abyss behind their coloring.
Mazzar’s frame proceeds mine as the next king of Zarr. He was my father’s infantry general, then mine, up until he pointed a soul gun at my chest and pulled the trigger. The image of that gem-studded barrel pointing at my chest will forever be burned into my soul.
Ice breaks out in every direction from me, coating the walls in Baratrum frost. This time, it doesn’t quite stay in the dimension of spirits, if the shiver of the passing maid is any indication.
That’s when I hear his voice, a familiar baritone from another life, coming from behind a closed door.
I condense into a ball of energy, unrecognizable as myself in case any of his spirits decide to leave his caster shield.
Another male voice comes from within the room, “Your Majesty,” the stranger says in an Awom accent, “The Zem workers in the tunnels are growing suspicious of the missing void gems. They’ve increased security in the mines again.”
“There’s no other way, Alto. My gems are burning out. Get them.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll leave right away.”
The door opens, and a tall Awom bondslave marked by light hair, light skin, and white freckles exits the room before hastening through me. He pauses, glancing back to where I hover, a crease forming between his white brows, before continuing with purpose.
From the cracked-open door, I see Mazzar in my situation room, where he ended my rule. He buttons his sleeve amongst a sea of black mist inside a giant caster shield.
I’d give anything to shred his soul now, but if I touched his caster shield, it would solidify like a wall of stone, his First-Made Vessel—my vessel—offering impenetrable protection against all spirits, even deathwalkers.
But apparently not soul guns.
He steps into the hallway, his eyes narrowing in my direction. His dark caster shield slides across the floor, a moving wall of hazy energy in sync with his step, making me wonder what spirit resides in it. I feel his magnitude of power intensifying as he nears me, so I retreat for now.
Through walls and rooms, I fly, each one stirring old, painful memories.
The grand ballroom where I dueled my first preliminary duel.
The room where I first spoke to my first love, Emya.
The hall where I last spoke to my sister.
Lola.
Could she still be alive? It’s foolish to hope, but with the Mark she wielded, she might be the only one of us who could escape the attack we endured that night.
I soar faster and faster, through hall after hall toward my sister’s old rooms until, by utter accident, I smack into a solid wall of energy, a pink, normal-sized caster’s shield with a decadent scent.
My eyes fall upon the caster behind the translucent, barely-there caster shield clinging to her skin, and for a second, I see nothing but black eyes on the face of a fucking goddess—
No, not a goddess.
The pure soul.
My eyes are trailing over every inch of her tan face, white hair, black eyes, and those fucking lips, when her memory sucks me in without warning.
The execution room wraps around me, the air of this memory like warm, soothing honey, backlit with a shimmering golden light I’ve never seen before. A woman screams in the distance as a man is shoved to his knees in front of me, and I’m smiling. Nizzara is smiling. Her hatred and rage surge through me. I can’t tell if it’s aimed at her father, or the rebel, but it’s so intense it takes over every thought.
Mazzar whispers at my side, “Fix your face, Nizzara.”
Her memories are different than any I’ve encountered. They clutch me with warmth and vibrancy, taking root deep inside, and warming my cold center. Despite the bloody scene full of screams, I don’t want to leave, and when it ends, I’m thrust back into the cold, dull world like a beggar tossed from a palace in the dead of winter.
It takes restraint not to sift through all her memories, because suddenly, that warm light is all I want.
What a cruel little beast, for making me feel this way.
She’s soaking in a bath of thick, concealing bubbles, her white hair draping over tan, wet shoulders. A tightening sensation coils somewhere deep in my abdomen.
No human things.
Nil said I cannot rip her soul out like I do to the others, but I am not going to lose this bargain because I didn’t try. Her Second-Made caster shield can’t repel spirits like me. I stick my hand out to touch her soul, but her faint pink caster shield turns to warm steel against my invisible arm, and I realize I can’t see or feel her soul. Her warmth bleeds into my essence, reminding me of how cold I became when the soul gun’s power sucked me to Baratrum.
Her bonded spirit, a little snooty thing, juts out into the washroom and plows into my condensed ball of energy, singing desires of protection and lust.
Ah. A spirit with a protective talent. That explains why I can’t hear the little beast’s desires or see her soul like I should be able to.
Nizzara’s memories, though, are not hidden. Maybe because they are like traps, meant to capture creatures like me.
“Who are you?” the spirit hisses, her ball of energy darting around me.
Behind the pink spirit, Nizzara’s black eyes pierce through me as if she can see me.
“I wish to serve the girl,” I say.
Nizzara’s eyes narrow as if she can hear me too. I’m positive I didn’t project my voice, but I skip that thought while I quickly piece a plan together.
Trust, I must gain her trust. How else will she hand over her soul willingly?
The pink spirit snarls and twirls about me, sniffing. “She already has a bonded spirit.” She slams into me, our unshaped balls of energies colliding with a zap.
“Away,” she hisses.
Nizzara’s eyes, which slice through my essence, follow me as I dissolve into the wall. I waited ten years in Baratrum.
I’m nothing if not patient.
Outside Nizzara’s chambers, I find her palace guards rotating formation, one of which is old enough for me to recognize. Brunar is thinking of Nizzara. The memory projects itself to me without any prying on my part.
He watches her atop the execution throne, smiling.
Lust and desire pool into every inch of me.
Not mine, I growl to myself.
Brunar lingers on her ruthless expression, her black eyes, and her lithe, strong body. It tugs on old, dead things within me, and I loathe her for it.