Soulkeeper Read online

  “Soulless are not to kill,” he said.

  “I defended us. Did I err?”

  “Yes, you fucking erred!”

  He could kill her right there and be fully justified. One bullet and this soulless monstrosity would be gone, and to the void with whatever tantrum Gerag might throw about it. He imagined pulling the trigger. He imagined the satisfaction in seeing Jacaranda’s body lying dead beside the boy she’d killed. Even if Jacaranda was trained to kill, an act strictly forbidden, Devin would find no justice back in Londheim. Gerag had bought himself into the church’s good graces. But his little puppet here? The one alone and vulnerable?

  “What are your orders?” he asked her with a shaking voice.

  “I am not to tell you.”

  “Are you to do what must be done to survive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell me your orders or I will put a bullet in your brain and use you as the kindling for the boy’s funeral pyre.”

  “I am to defend myself,” Jacaranda said. She twirled her daggers as she settled into a low stance.

  “I’m sure you are. Tell me, soulless, which do you think is more likely to spare your life: trying to outrace my pistol, or telling me what your orders are?”

  The woman froze as if calculating the odds.

  “Very well.” She stood up immediately. Her muscles slackened. Her daggers vanished into their sheaths. “I have many orders. Would you like me to detail them all?”

  The change was unnerving to watch. Jacaranda didn’t show the slightest concern for the pistol aimed at her forehead. It was like someone had flipped a switch, and now she was calm as could be. No grudge at being threatened. No hesitation at whether she had made the correct decision.

  “Let’s stick with the ones your master gave you explicitly for our trip,” Devin said.

  “Do accompany the Soulkeeper to Oakenwall,” Jacaranda began. “He is helping Master. Do not allow sexual favors with him. He has not paid. Do not reveal your orders. He is not to know. Do not allow deviation on the trip to Oakenwall. There must be no delays. Do not leave Oakenwall until the status of its workers is determined. The people are valuable. Do ensure Nathan Evart’s survival. Burn his home if he is missing or dead. Do not trust the Soulkeeper. Kill him if he abandons his duty to Master.”

  A spiteful part of Devin yearned to pull the trigger, put the soulless down like a rabid dog, but that was his anger and frustration talking.

  She is a tool. A weapon. Blame the hand that wields her.

  Devin holstered his pistol. Gerag deserved his anger, not Jacaranda. Perhaps it would not matter much, but when he returned to Londheim he’d lodge a complaint and see if he could start chipping away at the loathsome man’s support in the church.

  “A warning for you, Jacaranda. Don’t even think of trying to kill me. It won’t go well for you.”

  “I am highly trained,” she said.

  “So am I.”

  Devin debated what to do now. It was past the reaping hour, which meant either he could stay here for a full day and night to administer the reaping ritual, or he could have the boy buried and hope the recent changes in the world would allow it to escape without his intervention.

  “Dig a grave and bury him in it,” Devin said, deciding that as much as he disliked it, he couldn’t afford to waste so much time. Other lives might be in the balance. “We don’t have a shovel, so you’ll need to use your hands. Break the earth with your daggers if you must.”

  “I require sleep,” Jacaranda said.

  “And you’ll get it when the body is buried. That’s an order. Consider it your penance.”

  All soulless would follow orders given to them unless strictly trained otherwise, such as those conscripted to be city guards. Jacaranda searched for a particularly soft patch of earth and then dropped to her knees. Her daggers punctured the surface, breaking up the soil. Devin retrieved his pack, set it near the fire, and lay down to sleep. For the sake of his tired mind, he pretended not to notice the stain of blood along one side.

  CHAPTER 18

  Devin woke with the dawn. Jacaranda stood over a bare patch of dirt, steadily flattening it with her feet. Just now finishing, by the looks of it. Devin tried to ignore the first note of guilt that strummed his heart as he walked out to the field to piss.

  “Is the grave complete?” he asked her when he returned.

  “It is.”

  The woman was a sore sight. Large bags swelled beneath her eyes. Dirt covered nearly every part of her. When he looked to her hands he saw them sheeted with a drying cake of blood and dark earth. With his anger and shock subdued by the quiet morning, Devin’s conscience reared its stubborn head.

  Blame the hand that wields her, he recalled from the night before. Gerag might be responsible for Jacaranda’s training, true, but it also meant Devin was responsible for every bleeding cut and scrape she bore from digging the grave.

  “Come with me,” Devin said.

  She wordlessly followed him. He gestured for her to sit beside the dormant fire.

  “Are you in pain?” he asked her.

  “I am.”

  Devin ground his teeth together.

  You damn asshole, Devin.

  He set his pack beside him and retrieved a handful of supplies. Jacaranda watched him with disinterest. Devin dropped to his knees, uncapped his water pouch, and nodded.

  “Give me your hands.”

  She offered them, and he slowly poured the cold water across her fingers and palm.

  “Water is a necessary supply,” she said.

  “We’ll cross two streams today. It’ll be fine.”

  Devin gently brushed his hands over hers, testing for open wounds as well as removing the loose dirt. More water. Her fingertips were by far the worst. Those that weren’t bleeding were covered with blisters.

  “Anwyn forgive me,” Devin whispered. Then, louder to Jacaranda, “I’m sorry. This was wrong.”

  The woman looked at him but did not say a word. He would receive no forgiveness from her. Soulless didn’t understand the concept.

  Devin wiped away the dried blood on her knuckles and confirmed that none needed stitches. He flipped her hands back over and washed away the dirt from her palms. When finished he withdrew the first of his bandages and looped several layers about her knuckles.

  “Keep still,” Devin said, holding the bandage tightly while withdrawing his sewing needle. “I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have.”

  He sewed the bandages together, repeated the process on her other hand, and then washed her fingers a second time. Clear skin was starting to show, and he again reminded himself that he was an asshole. Most fingers bore cuts that’d heal well enough on their own if they didn’t become infected, but the nails of her left little and ring fingers had both torn down to the skin. The ring finger was the worst, with half the nail still ripped back and bleeding.

  “I need to remove the torn half of this nail,” he said. “I expect this will cause some pain.”

  She said nothing. Devin withdrew a slender knife from his pack and pressed the blade at the tender intersection between nail and skin.

  “On three,” he said. “One. Two.”

  Three. Off came the nail with a quick swipe of the knife. Jacaranda hissed in a breath through clenched teeth. Devin quickly wrapped both fingers with bandages and began his work with the sewing needle as a scarlet dot stained the white cloth. A minute later he was done. He groaned along with his back and knees as he returned to a stand.

  “I’ll need to check them by midday,” Devin told her. “Now lie down for a few hours. You look like you can barely stand.”

  “There must be no delays.”

  “A few hours won’t matter.”

  “There must be no delays.”

  It was the first time he’d ever heard her raise her voice. Something akin to panic shone in her eyes. Was that a tear? No. Soulless didn’t have emotions. This outburst made no sense.

&nbs
p; “All right, all right,” Devin said, not wanting to stress her further. “You can sleep while you ride. Is that acceptable?”

  Jacaranda said nothing. Devin figured that as a yes. He offered her his hand, and she promptly ignored it as she stood. Regardless of the pain it caused her, she saddled her horse without help, mounted it, and was ready to ride before Devin even prepared his breakfast.

  They rode their horses side by side at a calm pace, his eye always upon her. After a few hours she began to droop in her saddle. The road was too quiet, too steady. Devin reached out and took her reins. A little tug and the horses slowed. Jacaranda slumped further, her arms crossed in her lap and her chin to her chest. When they reached the first of the two streams they were meant to cross that day, he pulled the horses to a stop. Jacaranda might not like the thought of a delay, but Devin could see the effects of exhaustion on her, and he could not bear the guilt of her suffering further because of his mistake.

  “Easy now,” he whispered as he hopped down from his mount. He laid a blanket in the grass directly beside the stream, then unhooked Jacaranda from her saddle. For a brief moment he feared she’d wake up as he gently lowered her into his arms. Might she confuse it for forbidden sexual advances?

  He has not paid.

  The thought sickened him. Using soulless for concubines was strictly forbidden by both the church and the crown. Proving Gerag’s guilt, however, would be a difficult manner, for no doubt Jacaranda was well trained against questions regarding her interactions with Master. Even investigating the matter would be difficult, given Gerag’s generous donations to the church.

  Thankfully Jacaranda remained asleep, and he set her down upon the blanket. Deciding his own back could use a break, he prepared a second blanket, nestled his pack underneath his head, and closed his eyes. He didn’t sleep, nor did he expect to. Resting beneath the warm sun and listening to the soft gurgling of the stream was nice enough. These moments were why he relished his position as Soulkeeper, which had him always on the move somewhere throughout West Orismund. A common joke within the church went, “What is the difference between a Faithkeeper and a Soulkeeper?” The answer was twenty thousand miles.

  When Jacaranda awoke two hours later, she bolted upright as if her life were in danger.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “At the first of the two crossings I told you of,” he said. “We stopped to eat lunch.”

  “We mustn’t delay.”

  “Lunch isn’t a delay. It’s lunch. The stream’s right over there. Wash yourself up while I wait.”

  Instead of replying, Jacaranda began stripping off her jacket and shirt. Devin quickly put his back to her. Soulless did not show modesty unless ordered. Despite knowing she’d not care if he saw her nude, Devin still afforded her some privacy. Given her lack of self-awareness and her need to follow orders, observing her in such a way felt wrong.

  “Come back when you’re hungry,” Devin called over his shoulder. He sat with the stream directly behind him. Chiding himself for acting like a twelve-year-old skulking around a public bath, he opened his pack and pulled out a thick wedge of cheese wrapped in wax paper. He broke off two chunks, rewrapped the cheese, and then retrieved a package of dry rye bread. He tore equal portions of it and set them all atop his pack. Last were two wooden cups he filled with the last of the water from his skins.

  Jacaranda unceremoniously reached over his shoulder and grabbed one of the cheese portions. He glanced at her and froze. She stood completely naked, her pale body glistening from her dive in the stream. Her wet clothes were wrapped in a bundle underneath her arm, and she plopped them to the ground beside the fire to dry.

  Devin turned back around and stared straight ahead, more annoyed than anything. Jacaranda retrieved her blanket by the stream, dropped it next to her clothes, and sat atop it while eating her cheese. Next came the water and bread, which she ate with the focus and determination of a woman on a mission. Once finished she curled the blanket about her and leaned closer to the small flame.

  “We’ll leave once your clothes are dry,” Devin told her.

  “Master insists no delays. My clothes will dry while we ride.”

  “You’ll be cold.”

  “I do not understand why this matters.”

  Devin rubbed his eyelids.

  “We ride when your clothes are dry. That’s an order.”

  Jacaranda didn’t acknowledge him. Instead she unfurled her blanket, lay atop it on her back, and stared at the sky. If not for the sound of her breathing, Devin could be convinced she were a carved and painted statue.

  Once Jacaranda was dressed, Devin checked her bandages. Her worst two fingers were swollen, and he reapplied the wrapping to give them a bit more room to breathe. Devin wondered how much pain it’d caused her over the past few hours. Perhaps for the sake of his conscience it was best he not know.

  They made camp at the second stream crossing, a good hour earlier than Jacaranda was pleased with. They’d reach Oakenwall early tomorrow, and after five minutes of arguing Devin convinced her that keeping their horses rested was better than riding hard and arriving at the logging camp in the middle of the night. The memory of their previous midnight visitor weighed heavily on his mind as he built another fire. So far they’d yet to see another soul since the boy. Probably for the best, Devin thought grimly. Jacaranda offered to keep watch but he quickly shot her down. The last thing he wanted was to wake up to another body.

  The next morning came peaceful and calm. The sun shone brightly above them as they rode the wagon-rutted path into the empty confines of Oakenwall.

  “Keep wary,” Devin told Jacaranda as they slowly trotted between the log cabins. They were arranged in a clumsy square, with the lone road slicing through the middle toward the Oakblack Woods. Beyond them were horse and oxen pens, a half-dozen wagons in various status of loading and unloading, and a single open-faced barn.

  “Do you see anyone?” Devin asked. The prolonged silence had begun to unnerve him.

  “I see you.”

  “Besides me.”

  “No.”

  The two dismounted in the center of the cabin square. Devin’s instincts screamed out a warning, but no sign justified it. The entire camp was dead silent. Not even the chirping of birds or barking of dogs broke the quiet. The loggers had fenced in a large portion of the nearby grasslands for their horses and oxen, though the animals themselves were missing. Devin guided both their horses inside and then locked the gate.

  “To the forest,” Devin said to Jacaranda, who had trailed him the whole while like a shadow.

  By the line of trees leading into the Oakblack Woods the two found the macabre sight Broder had drawn. Bodies of men lay massacred across the grass, each one sporting a different, horrific mutilation. One man had his arms removed, turned to solid gold, and then repositioned so the metal hands strangled his own throat. Another seemed pinned to the ground by loops of grass, yet when Devin knelt closer, he saw they were actually shards of finely serrated metal colored and shaped like grass. They dug deep into his skin, opening veins and pooling dried blood beneath him.

  Near the center of the carnage he found the scene of one of Broder’s drawings, the lower half of the man solid gold, his legs braced as if caught midrun. It ceased at his waist, but where his upper half should be was instead a festering pool of rot. Bones lay scattered in all directions, lying within a black and gray mass that stank to the high heavens. Devin clenched his jaw and steeled his stomach. It seemed the entire upper body had separated from the lower gold half and collapsed to the grass.

  Though Devin tried to keep his distance, Jacaranda investigated the gold legs like she would any other random object. Soulless knew no fear, nor did they care if something smelled foul.

  “I have no explanation for any of this,” she said after a moment.

  “Join the club.” Devin pointed ahead. “Come with me.”

  Near the forest Janus had created his most intricate work of ar
t. Two men stood locked in place like statues. Their arms were raised high above their heads. Vines encircled their naked bodies… no, not encircled. Their flesh had become vines, and the blood that leaked through their torn skin bloomed into crimson flowers. Devin could still see bits of organs through gapes in the vines. The vines ceased at their necks, which remained solidly human, but that did not mean the horror stopped.

  A thick round branch stretched from each of their mouths, as if a tree had been planted inside their bellies and grown in an instant. Permanent expressions of horror were etched on their faces. Devin examined closer and immediately regretted it. The men’s teeth had been pushed outward to make room for the branch. Perhaps it had grown from their stomachs, and Devin felt creeping panic in the back of his mind at the thought of this being done while the two men still lived. The branches interlocked with one another to form the outline of a doorway. Across the interlocked branches grew an impossible bloom of flowers. Spelled with roses amid the rest of the white carnations was a lone name: Janus.

  “You are destroying evidence,” Jacaranda said as Devin sliced and hacked at the flowers with his sword until the name was gone.

  “That I am,” he said. “And I don’t care.”

  Every mutilated body, every sadistic display, only confirmed one fact for Devin: Whoever this Janus was, he loathed humanity to an insane degree. Sometimes he spelled words insulting a dead man with his own intestines. One man appeared perfectly fine until Devin cut open his chest to discover that his internal organs were solid stone. There was a glee to this murder, enough to frighten him to his core.

  If there was something Janus sought to gain from this, Devin did not see it. Had he come to Oakenwall to kill before making his way to Londheim, or perhaps had Oakenwall merely been on his way? Most Soulkeepers were masters at tracking, and Devin considered himself a cut above the others in his sacred division. It didn’t take long to identify the wide, flat feet of Janus passing through the doorway bearing his name and into the forest.