Of Kings and Killers (Elder Empire Sea #3) - WIll Wight Page 0,86

few Soulbound capable of healing injuries. And the list of those Foster could trust was short.

In fact, it was only one name long.

But Andel had his reasons for leaving the Order, and Foster still wasn’t sure the man understood the full impact of what he needed to do.

Foster tapped the medallion with the back of his knuckles. “You know we can’t use that without you.”

“I’m aware.”

“And we need your connection to the one you’ve got on, but the power from this one. Which doesn’t know you at all, so it might fail.”

“Yes.”

“And if it doesn’t fail, it might not work like we want. Whatever I Awaken, you’re stuck with it in your head for the rest of your life. It could be a false Beacon, a horrible, twisted—”

“Dalton.” Andel met his eyes, then pulled off the second medallion from around his neck. He handed Foster one with each hand. “I said I get it.”

Foster examined the look in Andel’s eyes and grunted in approval. Then he took both medallions.

The Luminian Order had very strict regulations on which of their Pilgrims could possess the full power of a Soulbound. They had to serve the Guild for years, oppose a certain number of Elders, and heal dozens of people the old-fashioned way: with alchemy and medical skill. Their medallion, and the Pilgrim themselves, should be a symbol of protective and healing light.

Even then, it sometimes didn’t work.

Awakening was a process of blending Intent from three sources: the object, its owner, and the Reader doing the Awakening. Some Pilgrims could form barriers of light but couldn’t heal worth a mark, and others had their minds warped by the Awakening process so they gained a holy zeal toward the eradication of Elderspawn. Still others successfully Awakened their medallion but failed to bond to it.

Andel had passed none of the checks his former Guild usually required.

This was a gamble.

Maybe the alchemy will be enough, Foster thought as his floating tools pried the gem out of first one medallion, then the other. Maybe we’re kicking off too soon.

The tools slotted the empowered gem into the silver with the connection to Andel, then hammered arms of silver back around the sides of the diamond to hold it in place.

Easy part done. He could stop here until they knew if the alchemical process would work or not.

But it was better to be sure.

Besides, it’s not my mind we’re gambling with.

Andel had said he understood what he was getting into, and Foster hoped that was true, because he was about to push this boulder over a hill.

He sat down at a chair, set the newly combined medallion in front of him, and started making Andel a Soulbound.

Calder looked around. He was seated in a plush, well-furnished sitting room of an expensive Capital mansion.

…but at the same time, he also felt like it was a disgusting slaughterhouse. Blood was splattered over everything, bits of meat lying on the floor and sinking into the walls, the stench of blood and decay hanging in the air.

Everything had the hazy sense of a dream in which his surroundings weren’t fixed. Somehow he was both in a pristine sitting-room and the site of a violent slaughter.

Even his thoughts were dim, but one figure was clear and distinct: the Heartlander man seated opposite him, covered in luxurious gold jewelry, with the steel blindfold nailed to his face.

“I’m pleased to see you again, Reader of Memory,” Kelarac said. “Though not as pleased as you should be to see me.”

Chapter Seventeen

four years ago

Dalton Foster’s hands shook as he tapped into his Soulbound Vessel. Awls, chisels, tongs, and hammers floated around him, each fused with Kameira pieces of his own selection.

The tools drifted like a constellation around the project on his workbench: a half-assembled handgun. The shed skin of an infant Duskwinder was pinned to the grip and wound its way up along the barrel.

His hands had never shaken on any other project. Now, it was all he could do to keep himself steady, his eyes focused. He hadn’t slept in five days, running on coffee and alchemical stimulants. His workshop stank; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to bathe.

He worked without food, without sleep, on pure desperation. And hate.

The lives of his family depended on him.

On the far end of the workbench was a covered box. He tried not to look at it, to focus on his work through the reading glasses perched on his nose, but his eyes were drawn back to the