The Way of the Soul Read Free

old, she believed what her parents had taught her. Gods were real, proved by the magic in the air with which the scientists of the world could create all of their wonders.
    “I praise thee, Dulmul,” she said, her little heart racing.
    In his deep, savory voice, the Lord Harskill said, “I am not Dulmul. I am real. Dulmul is nothing but a fiction.”
    “But Dulmul is the one, true god.”
    “Really? Have you ever seen him?”
    “No.”
    “But you see me.”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I ask you, who is more real?”
    Reon thought it over with her seven-year-old tongue poking out the side of her mouth. “You are certainly really before me. But not seeing someone doesn’t necessarily mean they aren’t there.”
    Lord Harskill laughed. “You’re a smart girl. So listen to me now — I am Harskill. And unless your Dulmul shows up and stops me, I am now the only true Lord of this world.”
    Reon’s skin reddened at the memory, and she had to concentrate before it returned to a normal flesh tone. The autocar pulled up at the restaurant — Joyous Garden — and Reon took one final, cleansing breath before stepping out.
    As the restaurant’s hostess guided Reon through the winding maze of tables toward her mother, her stomach grumbled at the intoxicating aroma of expertly prepared food. While she loathed these monthly lunches with her mother, at least she got a free meal — one far more costly than she could afford on her own.
    The main dining floor felt more like an arboretum. Cavernous glass ceilings allowed sunlight to trickle through foliage made of live trees desperately attempting to grow out of captivity. Three enormous chandeliers hung to provide light in the evenings. Reon knew the wealthy loved these kinds of places, found them peaceful yet intimidating, but for her, the whole thing seemed forced.
    When she approached the table, her mother gazed up and down — simultaneously an appraisal and an inspection. To the hostess, her mother said, “We’ll both have the ator fish with the sauce on the side, and basselberries, no sugar.”
    The hostess offered her most practiced smile. “I’ll send your waiter over at once for your order.”
    “You can tell the waiter our order. I don’t need to repeat it. Thank you.” As the hostess left, Reon’s mother muttered, “Service in these places keeps getting worse and worse. It’s because they hire all their help from the West. Bunch of lazy, godless idiots.”
    Great, Reon thought. She’s miffed.
    “So, Reon dear, how are your studies?”
    “Fine.” Reon launched into a description of the various courses she took and her recent high marks — applied mathematics, 10th century literature, and physics of magic. She barely heard herself speak and doubted her mother listened much. The entire conversation, beginning to end, every lunch, had become a prepared litany. The same questions, the same answers. The entire reason for the lunch seemed more as a way for her mother to check off Spent Time With Daughter rather than actually spend time with her daughter.
    Reon could not pinpoint the exact moment when they had stopped listening to each other, but she knew exactly when that process had begun — the morning after Lord Harskill had first appeared. Her parents had been sitting at breakfast. Little, seven-year-old Reon hurried to the table, excited because she had met a god.
    Her parents dismissed it as a dream, one that bordered on sacrilege, and suggested she go to church after school and pray for forgiveness. She insisted that it truly had happened which only caused her mother to dig in deeper. They skipped school that day and instead spent five hours kneeling on the uncomfortable prayer blocks at church, begging for forgiveness and praying that Reon had not been possessed by some demon.
    It was during those five hours that Reon decided she would listen to all that the Lord Harskill had said. He wanted her to grow strong. He asked her to study hard, to become bright,