The twisted sword, p.1
The Twisted Sword, page 1
Other Works
The Twice-Cursed Serpent
The Twice-Cursed Serpent
The Shattered Star (2022)
The Burning Hand (2023)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2022 Scarlett D. Vine
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First printing edition September 2022.
Cover Art by Beautiful Book Covers by Ivy
Map by Dewi Hargreaves
Character Art by Marcella W. (@mariamarcelw)
Published by Parker & Wilson Press
Contents
Dedication
Title Page
Map of the Malithian Empire
Caes and Alair
1. The Statue
2. Favors
3. The Twisted Sword
4. Revelations
5. The Hollow Heart
6. The Tavern
7. New Life
8. The Letter
For Wilson
The Twisted Sword
A Twice-Cursed Serpent Collection
Scarlett D. Vine
Parker & Wilson Press
The Statue
I accept.
Caesonia’s words—two little words—echoed through Alair’s head. She had seemed so small in that moment, a tiny thing overcome by the weight of the court, of obligations forced upon her. Her brown hair was shorn to above her shoulders, her neck bearing a puffy red scar, and yet her emerald eyes were defiant, despite how the court leered at her, this pathetic offering from Ardinan.
What was she thinking, accepting the curse? Didn’t she know she had no chance to live? Hundreds before her had tried—and failed. Princes. Scholars. Queens. Thieves. All had fallen before the Stone God. All had melted under the curse’s fire.
Then again, after everything her own kingdom had done to her—and Malithia was not much better—did he blame her? Maybe he would have acted recklessly too, taking a chance at a better life. Goddess knows he did the same, once...
“I didn’t think she’d do it,” Cylis said, reclining on a plush lounge seat. They were in the Spotted Prince, a tavern frequented by Soul Carvers to the point that they had their own private floor, sequestered from the wealthy who gathered below. They had left the royal banquet long before it was formally over, and while the court was surely going to have their own gatherings discussing the evening’s surprising events, this one was for Soul Carvers alone. The food in the Spotted Prince may have been sparse, but the liquor was strong and plentiful.
“I did,” Fer said, crossing his legs as he sat on the floor. He brushed his shaggy black hair out of his face. He poured a tiny bit of poison—a thick clear liquid—from a metal vial into his drink before consuming it. That was a necessity for a Soul Carver whose gift was poison—pure food would kill him. “She’s not the smartest one, or she wouldn’t have been in this position in the first place.”
“What, you don’t think she’s going to turn our skin inside out as we sleep anymore?” Kerensa asked, snapping her fingers and playing with the fire that resulted. Kerensa, unlike many Soul Carvers, seemed to have a morbid fascination with her magic. It wasn’t normal.
Fer snorted. “Hardly. Unless she’s biding her time. And don’t act like you weren’t afraid of her, too.” Kerensa glared at the implication that she was once afraid of anything.
“She’s still an Ardinani, and so she is a threat,” Cylis said, daring them to contradict him. “Remember her father, Shirla’s Chosen. She would kill us all if she had half a chance. She still could.”
“Please,” Kerensa said. “She took on the Stone God's curse. If she had any other option, she would’ve done it. Probably before the princess branded her,” she added almost as an afterthought.
Princess Seda. She had tried to curry Alair’s favor, once. She had failed. Alair didn’t care enough to be tempted by promises of riches. And power? He had been born a prince. A minor one, but still a prince. He gave up that life to become one of the most powerful Soul Carvers of all time. Such hollow power as that promised by Seda wasn’t worth it.
“Why’d she scream anyway?” Cylis asked. “You were executing that prisoner—the whole court was enjoying the show—she ruined the emperor’s demonstration for the Reyvern” –Cylis mouthed, searching for a word– “ambassador. Why then? Why at all?” A pause, and then Cylis waved his arm. “Alair? Hello...” Giving up, Cylis shook his head.
“Don’t bother asking him,” Kerensa said. “He doesn’t know. Or care to share.”
“Or both,” Cylis quipped.
“She’s Ardinani,” Fer said, “why wouldn’t she scream?”
“The emperor was angry,” Kerensa explained. “I doubt it was on purpose. She isn’t that reckless.” Kerensa frowned. “I think.”
Alair watched them banter about Caesonia’s wisdom—or lack thereof—while everyone went back to ignoring him. He preferred it that way. It let him pretend like he was part of something, but he didn’t have to do any of the work. Or actually talk to anyone.
“Hey, I’m not sure about you,” Fer said, “but I’m disappointed she won’t be a Soul Carver. Now that would’ve been fun.”
“She wouldn’t have managed the first part of the trials,” Cylis said. “Can you imagine her holding a sword? Much less the death Karima demands.”
“I wonder what she would have chosen as her death,” Fer mused. “I think poison. She seems the type. Passive. Relatively painless. It’s a good choice.” Fer motioned to the poisoned goblet in his hand. “I’m happy I don’t know what my flayed leg looks like. Or worse.”
“Why? Because she’s a woman?” Kerensa asked. “You think she couldn’t handle it?”
“No,” Fer said, giving Kerensa an annoyed glance. “Not many people are excited to see themselves burn.”
“Excited?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.” Kerensa crossed her arms.
“I wonder if Karima would have chosen for her,” Cylis said, interrupting them, “when she became too scared to decide how to die.”
Everyone shuddered, and even Alair had to suppress a quiver. When Karima had to choose for a potential Soul Carver, it never went well. And the poor soul was rarely brought back afterwards as punishment. Committing to being a Soul Carver meant committing to death, one way or another.
“I don’t know,” Kerensa said. “I think she could’ve done it. All of it. Others would've given up on life long before this. And she is no stranger to misery.”
A tavern girl named Cina, with black curls and an exuberant step, walked up the stairs bearing tankards on a tray, grinning at her special guests. She passed the tankards to the waiting Soul Carvers, who took them gleefully. Familiar with Soul Carvers, she didn’t stare or cower—Cina was an expert at serving them. Most of the time. She stopped before Alair and held out a tankard, her red lips practically pouting in expectation. Alair didn’t move. He didn’t look at her. She needed to leave him alone. Hells save him from women’s curiosity.
“Don’t bother with that one, Cina,” Fer said. “He won’t drink.”
Cylis snorted. “Isn’t that the truth.” He dove into his own tankard like a dog gulping water.
“That’s unfortunate,” Cina said. After giving a regretful glance behind her, Cina left Alair alone and went to tend to the other patrons, other Soul Carvers who huddled in their small groups. Oh, Alair drank, he just didn’t like to drink here. The Spotted Prince was too distracting when he needed to observe what was going on around him. Besides, drinking meant seeming accessible. And Alair liked to keep his distance. From everything. And everyone.
“Well,” Kerensa said after she had taken a large gulp, “regardless of what happens to Caesonia, I can guarantee one thing—this is going to be interesting.”
Harsh knocks on his door greeted Alair the next morning. He was already awake, though the sun had barely crept over the horizon, breaking aside the valley's mists.
He was seated at his rickety table, sipping on warm tea, letting the ceramic warm his fingers. His room was bare. His bed had little on it other than a couple of wool coverlets. He owned little. All of his earnings from being a Soul Carver were tossed into the street at the first beggar he came across. Pressure squeezed his chest and he fought for breath. What did he need money for? What did he need anything for? Iva was dead. His love was dead. He went into the Soul Carver trials for her, and she died. What did he—
The knocks sounded again.
Damn them all.
Slowly, he stood and moved to the door. He opened it, revealing the emperor’s servant, the same greasy-haired bastard as always, who was too old to be a boy, too young to have a man’s sense. Alair stared at the servant, waiting for him to talk. As always.
“The emperor orders you to attend to the cells. There’s a prisoner waiting. Now,” the man said, taking in Alair’s eyes. Did he do this task to brag to whoever he convinced to lay with him? I work in the palace. I talk to Soul Carvers. I know the Mind Melder—yes, that one. He’s a good friend. The sort of shit Alair would have bragged about once.
Best to get this done with.
Alair nodded and followed the serv
Death. Death and pain were the only reasons anyone wanted him.
The servant brought him to the prison cells beneath the palace, where the air was so rancid he could taste the excrement, mold, and blood. The cells had no light, except for an occasional torch on the wall, fighting a futile battle against the dark. Rats ran between bars and cells, emboldened as no one would stop them. If they dined on food or the prisoners, no one cared.
Too soon, Alair and the servant stopped at a cell with an open door, where two guards stood on either side of a man, who wrists and ankles were strapped to a wooden chair, the leather coated in blood.
“This one,” the servant said to Alair, not bothering to gesture at the man.
Another one for him.
This one was middle aged, dressed in simple prisoner’s robes, stained with dried blood and grime, though the man had no visible wounds. The robes probably weren’t washed between prisoners, even dead ones. The man’s skin went taut when he spotted Alair. Everyone knew what Alair did for the emperor. What he could do.
“What does the emperor want?” Alair asked, keeping his voice even, ignoring how the man’s fear twisted his stomach. Things were going to get worse.
“Torment. One time. Then you can go.” The guard gave a sick grin. “We will take care of the rest.”
Who was this man, that the emperor wanted him to experience misery without harming a single bit of his body? That the emperor wanted his mind twisted without being broken? Wealthy probably—they tended to have more use to the emperor alive. Or he knew something valuable he refused to disclose. It didn’t matter. The emperor ordered. This Soul Carver served the empire. All was as it should be.
Alair reached out his magic and lunged at the man’s mind like a bird of prey diving at a rodent. He sank into the man’s consciousness, pulling it towards him. The man’s mind was soft in his grip, malleable clay begging to be used. He could do anything he wanted to the man now. Make him feel or believe anything. So he did.
He pictured fire. The heat. The pain. Instantly, the man howled, believing he was burning alive. Alair gritted his teeth as sweat broke out over his body and he fought for breath. He was burning. No, he was making the prisoner burn. No, Alair was on fire, the scent of his burning hair wafting over him. No, Iva was on fire, her bubbling flesh smothering him with the smell of cooked meat. No, no one was burning. Caesonia was—
Alair jerked, letting the magic lapse. The man’s sweat-covered head hung forward. He wasn’t conscious. That tended to happen more often than not. There was only so much a mind could take.
The man wasn’t the only one feeling the aftereffects of Alair’s “gift.” Warm blood dripped out of Alair’s ear and down his neck, staining his clothes, the headache from the use of his magic slowly fading like a nightmare banished by the dawn.
He was done. There was no reason for him to linger.
“I take it you are satisfied,” Alair said to the guards as he turned and left the cell. A performance was ordered, and he performed. No one bothered to call after him to protest.
Another prisoner.
Another order.
For this, he had lost his love.
That afternoon, Kerensa ran up to him in a palace hall, just as he was about to fetch a small meal from the kitchens. He liked to eat alone.
“Alair,” Kerensa said, skidding to a stop and catching her breath, “I need a favor.” She was rocking back and forth on her feet. Interesting.
Alair looked at her and didn’t answer. Kerensa had never asked him for favors before. Occasionally, Kerensa tried to get Alair to talk and join in with the others. It never went well. She kept trying, though. The others had given up on him long ago.
She grimaced at his silence, biting her lip. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ You know how I’ve been guarding the Curse Bearer? Caesonia needs to go to the temple to see the Stone God. The others won’t go—or at least the ones who are available tonight. Will you?”
Alair raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why is she going?”
“She’s never been there. Alair” –Kerensa huffed– “I spent the day with her in the library. She thinks she can learn her way free. She’s pathetic. She half-thinks the goddesses aren’t real. She doubts the curse—trust me. She needs to see the cursed statue for herself. And learn that this is not a game.”
That was strange. Kerensa was...going out of her way. And asking him for a favor? Of all the Soul Carvers. Why did she care what happened to Caesonia? Kerensa had made no secret of her distaste before. Kerensa had thrown a chamber pot at Caesonia when they had first met, and now she wanted to help her?
“I see,” Alair said. He didn’t see.
“Will you go?” Kerensa prodded. “Who knows what the worshipers will do, and I’ve had enough of watching the Ardinani for the day.”
That wasn’t the full reason Kerensa had asked him—she had left out that Soul Carvers didn’t like the temple. Too many memories. Too many people gawking for a sight of them, the goddess’s favored ones. But Alair’s day was already ruined—what was one more distasteful journey?
“Yes, I’ll do it.” Then Alair continued on his way, not bothering to give a pleasant farewell.
“Thanks!” Kerensa called out from behind him. “You’re leaving after dinner. Have fun?”
Fun? Hardly. Another task. At least this one would not result in more misery.
Probably.
The carriage in which Alair rode with Caesonia took its time taking them to the temple. Not surprising—Glynnith was cramped. People, animals, wagons, and refuse littered the streets. Did the passerby wonder who was in this carriage, marked with the empire’s insignia? If they did, no one shouted or acted on it. The two of them may as well have been alone in the world.
She stared at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. And despite his best efforts, he found himself stealing glances at her as well. How could he not? It had been a long time since he had been around someone as unusual as her. Someone who made him want to learn more...her full lips, her brilliant green eyes...it had been years since he desired someone. And here he was, attacked by the beginnings of yearning like he was a gawky youth once more. Like the first time Iva grabbed his hand when they escaped from a court dance, laughing as she tugged him along the deserted corridors.
This was…he was feeling the same thing again. Him. After everything…
Caesonia sat with a straight back, perfect as any princess, her hands folded on her lap. Her shorn hair was braided and tucked behind her ears, concealing how short it was. Though she didn’t have a Soul Carver’s eerily perfect beauty, she was striking all the same. When she fixed her attention on him, there was an unexpected weight to her gaze. Like she was staring into his very core.
Why had she screamed when he used his magic near her? It had happened before, when he used his gift on Cylis and she was nearby. But he didn’t notice that she had the same issue around any of the other Soul Carvers...strange. And he never had his magic cause pain to anyone when he didn’t intend it. Yet another mystery surrounding someone already so perplexing.
Suddenly, the carriage jerked to a halt. The door opened and Caesonia stepped outside, pausing to take in the structure before her. Karima’s temple. And like its mistress, it was a monument to intensity, with overly intricate spires, excessive height, and carvings meant to terrorize or inspire—maybe both.
“A bit much, isn’t it?” Alair said. A bit much? That was what he came up with? Well, someone had to say something. Being entirely silent during the journey to the temple—now that was a bit much, even for him.
Caesonia startled, as if she was just reminded that she wasn’t alone. “Yes,” she answered, wrapping her arms around herself.
May as well get this over with. “Come.” He motioned her to follow him. “And stay close.” There was a reason Kerensa had asked him to accompany Caesonia. Relatively few lurked at the temple at this time of night, and no one would be happy to see an Ardinani—especially the daughter of Shirla’s Chosen—within the sacred walls. Foreigners had been literally ripped apart here before, due to imagined—and sometimes intentional—slights. Others had been kidnapped and held hostage. Many more were beaten. For an empire determined to bring the whole world under its control, its people did a miserable job of accepting anyone who wasn’t born in Malithia. Alair glared at the worshipers who had already gathered to watch them, their restrained indignation swelling against his charge—Caesonia’s coloring immediately gave her away as something other than Malithian.
