The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (116 page)

“Go away!” the Field Marshal roared.  “This is my victory!”

“And you didn't invite me to the celebration?  I feel scorned.”

“You should feel my blade in your throat, you wretched traitor.  Perhaps you will soon.”

Enkhaelen halted a few steps away and planted his hands on his hips, looking up at the Field Marshal with a sly little smile.  “Oh, you think so?”  He was dressed more neatly than usual—hair pinned down by clips, lacings tight, buttons correct—and by the wealth of silver embroidery on every layer, he was either headed to a grand ceremony or a war.  Despite his smile, his eyes were as cold and hard as his opponent's.

“I know your tricks,” snarled the Field Marshal.  “It is no coincidence that you've shown up now.  Come to rescue your precious game-piece?”

“What, that one?”  Enkhaelen gestured negligently at Cob.  “He's a pain in my ass.  I just wanted to verify that the Guardian had left, so I could hunt it again.”

“You mean conspire with it.”  The Field Marshal yanked the antler hard enough to make Cob grunt.  “Do you think me an idiot?  No matter what pandering display you put on for the court, you are still the Ravager vessel.  You are still
yourself
—the man who betrayed our god.”

The necromancer smirked.  “Me, the Ravager?  I subsumed that petty little spirit centuries ago.  I'll take this one too, if you don't mind.  I see it's still in there...”

He reached toward Cob, but the Field Marshal raised his blade in the way.  “Keep your distance.”

“Why?  You've caught him.  You win.  I can't have my consolation prize?”

As they argued, Cob—still on his knees—slanted a look toward his friends.  His head was twisted in such a way that he could just barely see Dasira, who stood with her blade drawn but held downward, her face turned away as she talked quietly to someone out of sight.  The White Flames had drawn in close to hold them all at sword-point; he couldn't begin to count them.

The Guardian remained in place, listening.  On his other side, Cob glimpsed the red light of the prince's sword slowly coming near.

If he released the antlers...  If the prince attacked the Field Marshal rather than him...

“Look, Argus,” said Enkhaelen, sounding exasperated, “you have no use for souls.  I do.  If you insist on killing him here, at least let me grab the spirit.  You get your trophy, I get mine.”

“And allow you to continue this farce?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“This 'game' you play.  All of your petty revolutions and temper-tantrums and sabotage, all the damage you've done to my armies and our supporting forces—it is a distraction.  I know about your other projects, your spies, your sleeper agents.  I have Blaze Company under lock and key, and now I have you.”

White Flames stepped forth to menace Enkhaelen from all sides, but the necromancer never looked away from the Field Marshal.  A strange smile quirked the corner of his mouth.  “Blaze Company?  That's interesting.”

“Not your best gambit,” the Field Marshal sneered.  “Perhaps you have others up your sleeves, but I won't let you use them.  You will attend the Midwinter rites at my side, and then—“

“Argus, really.  If you wanted a date, you could have just asked.”

Cob saw the Field Marshal's hand rise, heard the smack of metal against flesh, but couldn't credit it—couldn't believe his eyes as the necromancer reeled sideways, the White Flames shifting out of his way as if afraid to touch him.  He stayed half-bent for a moment, black-gloved hand pressed to his cheek, then straightened slowly.

“I'm sick of your smart mouth,” snarled the Field Marshal.  “You lack respect, loyalty, honor, and even the most basic— 
Do not laugh at me.
”

“But it's so difficult,” the necromancer teased, a malicious glitter in his eyes.  He held his other hand down and back in a way that Cob guessed was hidden from the Field Marshal; between his fingers, a spark formed.

One of the White Flames behind him started to raise his faceplate.  Two others moved in, their swords twisting toward his limbs.  His hand came up, aimed—

At Cob.

Startled, Cob had no time to react as the spark flared into a blue-white bolt.  Only the grip on his antler saved him, wrenching his head aside just far enough that the energy scorched his cheek instead of punching a hole between his eyes.  Then the Field Marshal's armored bulk eclipsed his view, flares of blue light and flung soldiers all he could see of the sudden uproar.

To the other side, the prince tried to advance, but more White Flames barred his way.

“Fine, fine,” he heard at last, “I concede.  I swear.  Tell them to stop touching me.”

“I should lead you back in chains.”

“You haven't got any.”

The Field Marshal shifted enough for Cob to see Enkhaelen in the grip of two White Flames, his hair in disarray but his expression as cool and amused as ever.  In contrast, the Field Marshal's was an ugly red, and the gaze he turned on Cob held suspicion—almost trepidation.

“The spirit,” he said thoughtfully.

Enkhaelen snorted.  “You care about that now?  Just kill him.”

“You promised the Emperor that he would have the spirit.  That he could devour it.”

“Did I?”

“And now you try to kill the vessel.”

“This is boring, Argus.”

The look on the Field Marshal's face was that of a man discovering an extra piece to his puzzle.  “Mages,” he called, gesturing briskly.

“What are you doing?” said Enkhaelen.

Three white-robed men came forward, all with the bleached hair and sunburnt features Cob had come to recognize as Daecian.  “Bind him as thoroughly as possible,” said the Field Marshal, jabbing a finger at Cob.  “Flames, add your threads.  Perhaps they'll help.”

“Excuse me?” called Enkhaelen.  “I thought we were killing him...”

“To release the spirit?” said the Field Marshal, turning away as white lights and tendrils descended upon Cob.  He squeezed his eyes shut, half-relieved and half-bewildered by this turn of events.  The scorch on his cheek throbbed like someone had inserted a needle under his skin.

“No, not to release the spirit.”  Enkhaelen's scoff sounded forced.  “So that he's dead and we're done and we can stop playing the game.  Just like you want, right?”

“To let the Guardian come back in a new guise, wiser to our ways?”

“I told you I'd eat it if you didn't want—“

“
Silence!
  No, the Emperor agreed to continue this round because you promised him the Guardian.  If you are truly not in league with it—“

“Don't be an idiot.”

“—Then you will not object to its sacrifice.”

Cords drew Cob's wrists together behind his back.  Arcane energy skated across his shoulders, sloughed off, then tried again and again until it caught like hooks in his skin.  The Guardian trembled in his throat as if prepared to leap away on his breath, but something made it stay, until the mesh of tendrils bound his jaw shut.  Opening his eyes, he saw the necromancer standing with arms crossed, mouth a bitter line—the picture of disgruntled defeat.

Hands hoisted Cob to his feet.  “Keep those antlers where I can see them, boy,” said the Field Marshal, casting a dark eye upon him.  “I'll harvest them before the Throne.”

“What about these others?” said the prince.  “You made a deal.”

“His death for their life.  He's not dead yet.  They come with us.”

Cob tried to dig his heels in, but the white ground was slick beneath him.  He tried to look back only to find that the tendrils had anchored his antlers to his wrists; any more than a glance strained his shoulders unbearably.

“But you'll let them go?  On your word of honor?” said the prince.

“He has no honor,” sneered Enkhaelen.  “That's why I was laughing.”

The Field Marshal rounded on the necromancer yet again.  “I will not release them so long as you are here.  You have your hooks in too many.”

“But I'll always be here.  You can't get rid of me.”  Enkhaelen smiled sweetly.

“Oh, I will be rid of you.  Once I speak to the Emperor...”

“Let me take them,” said the prince.  He'd slung the crystal blade across his back, and in the wan light he just looked tired.  Used-up.  “Neither of you are honorable.  I'll make sure this is done properly.”

“Stay out of it!” snapped Enkhaelen.

That drew a smirk from the Field Marshal, and a permissive—almost contemptuous—wave.  “I suppose I can cede the useless ones to you if it will soothe your tortured soul.  But if you try anything foolish, we will revisit this.  With your father.”

The prince clenched his jaw, then exhaled slowly.  “Yes sir.”

“Good.”

Then the Field Marshal made another gesture, and a full three-quarters of the hostages—including the caravaners, the foothill townsfolk, most of the pilgrims and innocent bystanders, plus Nana Cray and Vriene Damiel—collapsed like puppets with their strings cut.  As they crumpled, he caught sight of one he hadn't noticed, and his heart caught in his throat.

Aedin Cray, Ammala's son.

She was there, still standing among the fallen, and he closed his eyes to avoid hers.  To avoid Lark's too, and Weshker's, and all the others who hadn't deserved this.

The white cords tugged at him, and he let himself be led.

*****

Dasira watched them go and cursed herself for not running a different way.  Perhaps she could have drawn their pursuit elsewhere—or at least not stood helpless in the aftermath.

At the head of the remaining soldiers, Crown Prince Kelturin stood grim-faced, watching the soulless husks of the fallen being drawn into the substance of the road.  Not many hostages remained: Lark, fortunately, and a man Dasira recognized as the former Maevor, plus a few unknown women and confused men.  The others she'd recognized—Weshker, Horrum—had been drawn along with the Field Marshal's entourage.

By the prince's expression, he had no idea what to do now.

“Kel,” she hazarded, drawing his stare, “you have to pick a side.  I know how much you hate your superiors.  It's time to act on that.”

He blinked slowly, then scowled.  Despite the illusion, he looked haggard.  “My superiors?  You mean those two and my father?”  He waved to the White Flame soldiers.  “I have no power here.  Even this lot barely obeys me.”

“But will they impede you?”

“Why?”

Dasira glanced around, meeting Fiora's eyes, then Arik's, then Lark's.  The Shadow girl had Maevor by the sleeve, which was curious, but gave her a firm nod—nothing had changed there.  And the White Flames had made no move, just listening through the blank plates of their helms.  “We have a mission.  You heard some of it from Cob.”

“To kill Enkhaelen?  To do something with these Seals?”

“To close them.  We—“

“We know where his real body is!” interjected Fiora.  “All we need to do is access it, but it's hidden behind the throne, so we need to follow them and—“

Kelturin gestured at the Trifolder, still watching Dasira.  “Who is this?”

With a sigh, she said, “Kel, Fiora.  Fiora, Kel.  She's right; we have to go after Rackmar's lot, so we can get to Enkhaelen's body before they kill Cob.”

“Because he's important to you?”

“He is, all right?” she said, tired of that look on his face.  “I won't apologize for choosing him.  You and Enkhaelen didn't give me many options.”

“If you cared for me, you would have captured him as ordered,” he said coldly.

Her hands fisted.  Stepping forward, aware that this was unwise but incapable of keeping it in, she snapped, “I always cared for you!  But this has never been about you, don't you see?  Neither the good parts nor the bad.  It's been Enkhaelen against the Emperor this whole time, and  the rest of us are their game-pieces.  Me against Cob, me against you, Rackmar against you, them against us.  Everything you've gone through, everything you've struggled for and suffered, everyone you've loved and lost—it's all been
orchestrated
.  You know that!”

He blanched.

“We have to stop it!” she continued, still approaching.  “Those two bastards have twisted every aspect of our lives, and we never had a chance before this.  We never even knew we could be free.  Kel, if you turn away now—if you let them win—it will never end.  You'll always be exactly what you are.”

“And what is that?” he said tightly.

“A prisoner.  Just like us.”

He looked away, and she saw the muscles tense in his jaw, the wraith-wrought sword shifting surreptitiously on his shoulders.  It was hooked to him by extrusions of its own glassy substance, and she'd seen it in action enough to know that it served his will—or at least listened.

After a moment, he said, “I can't.”

Anger took her.  “
Can't?
” she screeched, uncaring of the blade.  “What are you, a coward?  Even cripples confront their challenges!  You've complained about this all your life, and now you say you—“