Soul Shade (Soul Stones Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © T.L. Branson 2018

  The right of T.L. Branson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be edited, transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. It may not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s permission. Permission can be obtained through www.tlbranson.com

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Certain events may have been adapted from history, but do not contain any real details.

  1st Edition 2018

  Published by T.L. Branson

  Cover Illustration by Guilherme Batista

  Cover Layout by T.L. Branson

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Books And Stories By T.L. Branson

  Free E-book

  Map of Aralith

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  More Soul Stones

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books And Stories By T.L. Branson

  SHORT STORIES AND NOVELLAS

  Midnight Blade

  Kingsbane

  Ash and Steel

  Sentinels of the Stone

  Soul Siphon (Novella Collection)

  NOVELS

  Soul Render

  Soul Shade

  Soul Seer (Early 2019)

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  Map of Aralith

  1

  Khate ran through the dark alley, her heart beating against her chest. Her legs burned, her side ached, and her throat stung from her ragged breathing.

  “There she is. Over here!” her pursuer shouted.

  She cut to the left, then right, then left again. Ducking behind a crate, Khate pressed her back against a wall and sank to the ground.

  Khate placed a hand on her chest and tried to steady her breathing. She was getting too old for this. In her prime, she never would have gotten caught in the first place, but now she was pushing forty. Not to mention she’d left that sort of life behind nearly two decades ago.

  The world had gone to ruin a week ago. News went out across the kingdom that Aralith’s tyrant king, Alexander Drygo, was dead—killed at the hands of his own daughter. Khate had a hard time believing it, but what Khate believed didn’t matter—it’s what the people believed.

  Anarchy had broken out, each province declaring their independence and reclaiming the title of kingdom.

  None of that really mattered to Khate. She had been set on her current path months before. Years, really, though she didn’t like to admit it. It had all started when her sister, Evangeline, died

  Khate closed her eyes and let her mind wander.

  Everything that had happened was all his fault. Drygo, Khate’s brother-in-law—he did this. Ever since he’d found that cursed stone.

  Khate shook her head. She wanted nothing to do with it. She had run to the ends of Aralith to get away, settle down, and find a new life.

  But there was no escaping it. She realized that now after everything had been taken from her.

  There was no choice, really—Khate was going to find a stone of her own. Once upon a time, before Drygo had gone mad, Khate had been the king’s personal assassin and spy. If anyone had the resources and network to track down a thousand-year-old relic, it was her.

  But she wasn’t as connected as she thought she was, many of her contacts having retired or been killed in her time out of the business. Yet after weeks of searching, she finally had a lead in Berxley.

  Khate lifted the cup and beheld it in the moonlight. A map of Aralith was engraved along its circumference—well, a partial map. The cup belonged to a set, the companion of which had the remainder of the map.

  The pounding of boots on stone reminded Khate that she didn’t have much time. Pulling out a piece of parchment, she unrolled it and placed it on the ground. Then she drew her knife and pressed it into her forearm. She gritted her teeth, but didn’t flinch as the knife split her flesh.

  After rubbing her blood over the sides of the cup, she placed it down on the parchment and rolled it. The image left behind wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

  Khate quickly wrapped her wound, then rolled up the parchment and tucked it in her waistband. With a heave, she pushed off the wall and stood.

  The shouting and sounds of pursuit had subsided. First peering out of the alley, she swiftly left it behind when she didn’t see anyone. Khate glanced back over her shoulder to make sure she hadn’t been seen as she headed for the main street.

  A pair of rough hands grabbed her.

  “Got you, you little thief,” the man said.

  She turned back and kneed him in the groin. He winced, and his face tightened as he fought to hold in the pain. His hands released her, allowing her to turn and flee the other direction.

  Another man, sporting a guard’s uniform in Berxley’s green and gold, stepped into her path.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked. “Do you think that just because Aralith’s in chaos that gives you the right to take what doesn’t belong to you?”

  “Like your ‘king’ is any better,” Khate said just loud enough so he could hear. Everyone knew Berxley was a queendom. Though that was before Drygo had conquered them and killed the last queen. Now some opportunistic fool thought he could uproot a thousand years of tradition for his chance at power.

  Khate didn’t care either way. He had had what she needed and she’d taken it. Mission accomplished.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  Khate shrugged with a smirk. “Looking for this?” she replied, holding up the cup.

  The man behind her growled.

  “Hand it over,” the other said.

  Khate turned, placing her back to the wall, keeping an eye on both men. They stared at her with hunger in their eyes. She imagined they could almost taste victory and might even now be thinking of the rewards their king might heap upon them for a job well done.

  There was only one problem.

  “Gladly,” Khate replied, tossing the c
up up into the air between them.

  They both quickly lunged for it and collided, knocking each other to the ground.

  Khate didn’t wait another second. She ran past the men, turned the corner, and emerged onto the busy street.

  Shucking off her black cloak, she tossed it onto a merchant’s wagon heading the opposite direction. Khate undid the tie in her hair and let her brown locks fall down around her shoulders, which she then ran her fingers through, mussing it up.

  The heavy pounding of the guard’s boots and startled cries of passersby erupted behind her, but Khate didn’t turn around. She was as good as invisible in the crowd.

  Still, she held her breath until she left the men far behind and could rest a little easier.

  The streets of Berxley were unusually busy for this time of night, though she was thankful for it. Firelight blazed at regular intervals along the main thoroughfare. It was late fall, and though no snow had yet graced the ground, the fires served as much for heat as they did for light.

  Usually, few people would travel the streets after dark and fewer still in the cold, but these were not ordinary times. The day after the news of Drygo’s death hit, provinces across the kingdom broke out in celebration. Tyranny was over. But tyranny had been replaced with anarchy. Some provinces, like Berxley, responded swiftly and established new governance. Others had not been so lucky.

  Khate got what she came for and now needed to find a quiet place, yet public enough to avoid drawing attention. She advanced slowly down the street, slipping through the crowd. Her eyes scanned the signs above the businesses on either side of the street until she found one that would do. “The Black Cod,” the sign had read.

  Ascending the lone step, she pushed open the door. A cacophony of terrible music, raucous laughter, and clattering mugs greeted her—the pungent odor of sweat and stale beer accompanying it.

  She stepped inside and the door swung shut behind her.

  “Hey there, pretty lady,” a tall, blond man at the bar said with a wobble and a hiccup.

  Khate scoffed.

  She doubted anyone would consider her pretty these days. She might have been once long ago. But that was before…before everything. Now, her eyes were wrinkled prematurely, her skin was at the onset of sagging, and the roots of her hair were starting to gray.

  Stress and hardship had taken its toll. Being a single mother in a man’s society would do that to a woman. A familiar guilt coursed through her again. It was all her fault, of course. If she hadn’t insisted her husband go on duty the night Celesti fell—if she had just stayed out of it and let her friend Ocken solve his own problems, then just maybe her husband wouldn’t be dead and things would have turned out differently.

  But it was what it was, and her physical features were a casualty of it. That didn’t mean she was completely inept. She’d spent the last fifteen years training for a day like this. Though, if she was being honest with herself, she had been beginning to think herself a fool until a letter came from her son a month ago.

  She winced and squeezed her eyes shut, not able to think about the contents of that letter right now.

  “Oh, come on, sweet thing. I’m not that bad,” the blond man said with his chest puffed out. He indicated his body with his hands as he said, “There’s more power in this package than anything you’ve bedded in years.”

  The man reached his hand out to push aside a lock of Khate’s hair. She grabbed his wrist and twisted, locking his arm out and shoving his face against the bar. Glasses rattled as his head connected with the wood.

  A collective gasp rose up from the patrons and the room fell silent. Khate glanced around the room out of the corner of her eye, then turned her attention back to the blond man. He sobered in an instant, his eyes darting in panic and his breathing growing more ragged by the second.

  Khate leaned in close and whispered into his ear through clenched teeth, “I have more strength in my little finger than that beer-bellied body has had in years.” She eased off, then shoved the man hard into the bar once more.

  He groaned.

  She grabbed the man’s mug of ale and walked away. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “And don’t forget it.”

  The patrons stared for another moment, eyes wide with shock, then they settled and went back to their drinks.

  Khate continued through the tavern, curious eyes following her as she went, and took up residence at an empty booth in the back corner. She’d already attracted too much attention—now she needed to drift into the shadows.

  When she was sure she’d be left alone, she placed the mug down on the table, pulled the parchment from her waistband, and unrolled it. Then she pulled out a second parchment and laid it next to the first.

  She stared at the maps, confused. They weren’t two halves of a map, but two copies of the same map. She fiddled with the silver ring around her finger—a symbol and reminder of what she was fighting for.

  She snorted and let out a sigh of frustration. Another weeks’ worth of effort wasted.

  Khate swiped the mug off the table and took a sip, scrunching up her features. She never liked the stuff.

  Slamming the mug down in frustration, it teetered and fell, spilling its contents all over the table.

  Hissing, Khate picked up the maps to prevent them from getting more damaged than they already had been. Then she felt the heavy weight of eyes gazing upon her again. This night hadn’t at all gone according to plan.

  A red-headed barmaid approached her and said, “May I help you, ma’am?”

  “A cloth, if you would, please,” Khate said.

  The maid gave her a nervous grin and wiped down the table. “Will you be needing a refill?” she asked.

  Khate forced a smile. “No, thank you.”

  The young woman nodded and quickly darted away.

  Once the maid was gone and Khate was sure the table was dry, she placed the maps down and sat back in frustration.

  Looking down at the maps one more time, she saw that the top left corner of one of the maps had gotten wet. She pulled out her own rag and began dabbing at the damp parchment.

  That’s when she noticed an odd symbol at the northern end of the Isle of Kent—a half circle with a line through it. It had looked like the errant line of a wobbly hand before, but as she compared it with the newest map she noticed a similar marking, only reversed.

  Khate laid the two maps on top of each other and held them up to the chandelier of fire that gave light to the room. Both maps were visible through the light, so she lined the borders, allowing the two maps to become one.

  There, at the top, lay a completed circle with an “X” through the center. She’d found it. The soul stone was on Kent, in the northeast corner of the island. Khate only knew of one thing that far north: Mount Hanwick, Aralith’s only active volcano.

  She needed to book passage immediately. Good thing she was in a tavern. Most everyone knew that if a sea captain wasn’t on his ship, he was at the bar.

  Khate looked up from her table and scanned the room. Her eyes fell onto a surly old goat of a man who was staring back at her. He grinned, revealing two missing teeth. Khate averted her gaze.

  None of the other people looked like captains, but what did she know? She’d never been on a ship, and she didn’t know Berxley.

  Khate signaled the barmaid.

  “Can I get you something?” the young woman asked.

  “Perhaps,” Khate answered. “I’m looking for passage to Kent. Do you know anyone headed there?”

  “Tobin and his crew sail for Kent on the morrow,” she said. “But…”

  “But what?” Khate pressed.

  The maid turned and nodded to the blond man from earlier. “That’s Tobin.”

  No. Absolutely not.

  “Anyone else?” Khate asked without hesitation.

  “Headed to Kent?” the woman asked, then she shrugged and shook her head. “Not that I know of, sorry. Anything else?”

  “No, that�
��ll be all, thank you.”

  The barmaid nodded and walked away.

  No matter, Khate thought. This was only one tavern in one part of the city. It might take her all night, but she’d find passage to Kent.

  She stood and made her way toward the exit.

  As she passed by the surly old sailor, his raspy voice said, “I hear—”

  “Not interested,” Khate snapped without giving him a second glance.

  Heads turned, and once again all attention fell on her. Tobin gazed at her with hunger in his eyes.

  Khate’s heart began to pound and her chest tightened. She increased her pace and stormed from the tavern. Behind her, a mug slammed against wood and the floor groaned as several chairs pushed away from the bar.

  A hand grabbed her for the second time that night.

  Khate turned around and slapped her assailant.

  Tobin’s face scrunched up in anger, two of his goons standing behind him.

  “You gutless wench!” Tobin spat, drawing his sword.

  His left hand flew out and clutched Khate’s throat as he shoved her up against a wall outside the tavern. Raising his sword, he held it an inch from her throat.