Soulbreaker by Terry C. Simpson Page A

down to the exterior and stuck. Time dragged as the snow collected. He lost track of how long he managed to hold the last trickle of sintu augmented with tern . A moment before unconsciousness devoured him Winslow imagined a fireplace. It was the last image before his mind went black.

4
    S igns
    T he throne room was abuzz with talk of the Heleganese representatives. Did they come to pledge their allegiance or to personally declare war? King Ainslen Cardiff wondered, leaning back into the Soul Throne, the great ivory, silver, and gold seat that was not simply a chair but part of the wall from which it jutted. The diminutive, milk-skinned people from the north had ever been a strange sort, if a bit too bold. He did have one surety. They were not here to make an attempt on his life. They always let a man know their intentions before dispatching their spirit assassins. A show of honor, they called it. He preferred to name it stupidity. You didn’t let a free man know you wanted him dead. You did the deed before he had a chance to prepare himself.
    “I lost another dozen men, sire,” Count Leroi Shenen said through clenched teeth.
    Preoccupied by his thoughts, King Cardiff had forgotten the fair-haired count was standing beside the throne. Leroi’s lithe frame and shifty eyes gave the impression of a snake poised to strike. The king had hoped that the sound thrashing he gave the count had disabused Leroi of any treacherous thoughts. Perhaps he underestimated the man’s perseverance. “I warned you not to send them into the Treskelin, but you would not listen. Now, you suffer the consequences.”
    “What would you have me do? Pretend all is well? Sit around and wring my hands like a woman?” Shenen’s face was dark with anger. “I should ask why it is that you seem to have so little concern for Winslow’s safety, but then his upcoming marriage to my daughter was to seal our pact, a pact you no longer need to recognize in his absence. I—”
    “Would be careful of my words if I were you,” Ainslen said, voice even. “Your tone flirts with accusation, so, let me be clear before your mouth finds itself bedded by my sword. Winslow is my son; it is struggle enough to consider what he might be suffering at the hands of his captors, or to think he might be dead, without the hint of an insult flitting around that small mind of yours. If I wanted to sever our ties, I would’ve killed you on Succession Day. Instead, I provided you with more power than you have ever seen, and kept to my part of our bargain despite the absence of a marriage. A grandson is binding enough, I should think.”
    “I wish to believe you, but Winslow should be your successor at Mandrigal Hill and yet you allowed Katuro to take your old house. As if that were not issue enough, you still have not sent men out to the Treskelin, perhaps some Blades, or these Farlanders of yours.”
    “Katuro was ready for the rigors of the court. Winslow was not. The holdings of Mandrigal Hill requires experience,” the king said. “As for the Treskelin, I haven’t sent anyone into its confines for the same reason that began this conversation: your dead men. In time, I will deal with the Kheridisians and whomever might have taken my son, but for now I must pick my battles with care. Until they do more than send messages, I have other issues to attend, an Empire to mend. After we bring Thelusia and Marissinia to heel, then we can deal with the issue of my son and those godless people hidden within the Treskelin Forest.”
    “I have your word?” Shenen asked.
    “You do.”
    “Very well.” The count’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “In the meantime, how do I deal with these rumors?”
    “Ignore them,” the king said, shrugging. “As I explained to you before, Winslow’s mother was half Marish, eyes as slanted as your grandson, Jaelen. You do remember my beloved wife, Marjorie, don’t you?” Shenen nodded. “Good. In the same fashion that a few of us show