Read Online Game of Souls by Terry C. Simpson - Free Book Online Page B

the one made today could cost us.”
    Winslow bowed his head, not only at the mention of the God, but also to appear sufficiently chastised. If he had his way, politics would be of no concern to him. But he didn’t. It was as much a part of his life as the air he breathed. Not wanting his father to go on one of his tirades, he remained silent, waiting for dismissal, but none came. The count appeared lost in thought. Relieved, Winslow waited.
    “I was so sure they would see this as an opportunity not to pass up,” the count muttered to himself. “So why do nothing? What are you planning now? I cannot afford for anything to interfere with our day.” He shook his head and focused on Winslow once more. “Anyway, I will decide which Blade you will apprentice under in a day or two, but do not get your hopes too high. You will learn the basics and nothing more.”
    “Yes, Count Cardiff.” Winslow turned to leave.
    “Oh, before I forget, have a messenger sent to Antelen Hill. Tell Gaston I wish to speak to him immediately.”
    Winslow merely nodded. He’d already gone over their story with his friend. The count would discover nothing new about Keedar. And he’d find a way to convince the boy to teach him all he knew.

P ower in Blood
    C ount Cardiff watched his son leave. When the door clicked shut behind the boy, he stood, strode across the lush carpets, and peered out the closed windows. To his left and right the Ten Hills and their individual mansions spread before him, each one several miles apart. They circled the temples dedicated to the Dominion, and the soaring, granite, limestone, brick and mortar structure of the Grey Fist, the old king’s palace. Engineers and melders had built each mansion upon man-made inclines several hundred feet high and leveled off at the apexes. Below the counts’ homes were Kasandar’s minor noble houses, each a villa in its own right. As spectacular as the view of the lighted spiderweb of streets and edifices here in the noble district was, the Golden Spires adopted by King Jemare for his new home shamed them all. Their glow dominated the skyline to the east.
    Ainslen ground his teeth. He’d climbed from armsman, to soldier, to King’s Blade, to a member of King Tolquan’s court before Jemare, then a count, took the man’s head and his crown. That was the way of succession, the way of the game. Futures were decided not only through politics, but also by might, blood, and violence. Ainslen himself had killed his own father to assume the rule of Mandrigal Hill. But he was a count, when he should be king. Unless he drastically increased his position and power far beyond what he now possessed, he too would die to a dagger, poison, an arrow, or a sword, long before he grew grey or held the title he so richly deserved.
    Turning away from the window, he inhaled deeply, savoring the ginger spice scent of the incense he burned. The smoke chased the many mosquitoes from their homes in the two buckets of stagnant water beneath the rear windows, leading them toward the door where the wisps lessened. Tempted as he was to savor what they’d gorged themselves on, he let the insects be for now. He would have time enough to enjoy them in privacy.
    “So, what do you think, Shaz?” Count Cardiff focused on the shadows near the largest bookshelf across the room.
    The shadows shifted slightly, taking on a solid form. If he chose to strain his eyes, he would be able to see the man hidden there before he became visible to the naked eye. But he chose to conserve his energy instead. Plus, he preferred to keep his abilities as a surprise. A precaution should Shaz change allegiance one day. With his knack for determining a person’s strengths and weaknesses, the assassin was too dangerous to ever trust completely. Ainslen smirked. Betting on Shaz’s loyalty was like putting a wounded deer in front of a wolf and expecting the beast not to attack. It was a losing proposition. But the man had his uses,