The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (117 page)

“Stop!” he said, stepping back.  The look on his face was strained, wounded.  “There's nothing we can do.  Even if these troops followed me, they're not enough, and I can't guarantee anything while in the Palace.  When my father's will is set, I can barely even find the path!  It can't be done, Vedaceirra.  Especially not if Enkhaelen is hiding
behind the piking throne
.”

She halted, gritting her teeth.  The whole plan had been a long-shot from the start but she wasn't willing to let it end like this.  “Then give us some robes and let us go.  We'll take care of it.”

“I can't do that either.”

“Kel—“

“No.”  The emotion fled his face, leaving him stony.  “No, I won't disobey my orders.  Rackmar gave you to me with the understanding that I'd keep you in custody until the boy is dead.”

Her stomach sank.  She saw Fiora reach for her sword, and was considering going for her own weapon—going out like a fighter—when the prince added, “We'll have to be there, of course.  To witness it.”

“There?” she echoed, signaling Fiora to halt.

“In the throne room.”

She could have laughed, but it would have been telling and perhaps hysterical. 
So you've deferred the choice?  Prefer to wait and see if it's even possible?

I suppose I can't blame you.

“Not all of us, though,” she tried.  “It will be crowded, and some of these people are already converts.” 
Untrustworthy.

“We shall see.”

She nodded, and was about to acquiesce when she heard a growl from behind.  Looking back, she saw Arik staring off the plateau the way they'd come, fur hackled with stubby half-formed quills.  The White Flames there were parting warily, as from one of the root-like staircases came another white figure bearing a black sword.

Her mouth went dry, and she drew Serindas.  All around, the White Flames immediately extruded their weapons; one grabbed Fiora by the sword-arm and yanked her off-balance before she could draw her own.  Arik skittered aside on three good legs, teeth bared and eyes darting as if unsure who to attack: Erevard or the White Flames who moved in with spears.

“Disengage!” called the prince, but though the White Flames hesitated, Erevard did not.  He smacked the flat of the black blade against a soldier in his way, and rot immediately bloomed on the fibrous armor, causing the soldier to stagger away shredding at it in panic.  Swords and spears rose against him but he cut right through, and even those that struck did nothing to his armor—the same stuff as theirs.  They managed to bind him for a moment, but then the black blade tore through, sending more into retreat.

Serindas seething in her hand, Dasira moved to engage.  Erevard owed her a bellyful of guts, not to mention his threats against Cob, and she felt much healthier now—much more assured, with no swamp to suck at her legs and no dizziness.

Vermillion glass intruded between them.  “I said disengage!” the prince barked, and Dasira shied away from the shivering resonance of the wraith-blade, not willing to argue.

Erevard was not so easily thwarted.  He backstepped, then lunged for the prince, blade aimed at his chest; extended as Kelturin was, it might have caught him.  But quick as thought, the red crystal flowed from over-long sword into whorled shield, and on impact the black blade blew from Erevard's hand in a shower of bloody sparks.

“Kill him!” Dasira shouted.

The prince hesitated, and she had a moment to realize perhaps he'd never done that before—never cut down one of his own.  In that brief moment, Erevard snatched his sword up then veered wide, swiping out with it to drive the White Flames back as he dashed away.

A hand clamped on Dasira's shoulder, and she realized she'd started after him.  “Who was that?” said Kelturin, aghast.

She shrugged his grip off.  Already Erevard was out of sight among the village-nubs, probably running for the road.  They couldn't stay here.  “Lead on, oh prince,” she said.

Kelturin stared, then turned his back to her, snapping orders to the unsettled White Flames.  The ones Erevard had hit were recovered, she noticed—the rotted parts of their armor shed like snake-skins.

For the first time, she was jealous of them.

Chapter 31 – Black Mirror

“I know you still have something up your sleeve,” said the Field Marshal.

On Cob's other side, the necromancer snorted.  “Do I?”

“Whatever it is, it won't get past me.”

“Well aren't you the hero.”

“I am the last line of defense this realm has against your treachery.”  By the tightness in his voice and the grimace apparent through his thick beard, the Field Marshal meant it.  “You have poisoned the prince, fascinated the Emperor and sabotaged my allies, but I will not—“

“Fascinated?  You make me sound like a dancing-girl.”

“
Silence!
  I will see you contained in full!”

Enkhaelen rolled his eyes.  “You'll do what the Emperor allows, just like the rest of us.  Don't pretend you're superior.”

The Field Marshal laughed, a harsh sound that cracked the anticipatory hush.  To either side, low walls had begun to rise from the edges of the road, faintly radiant in the settling gloom, while ahead a greater radiance stretched high and wide to hold back the night.

Cob could only look at it in glimpses—not from fear but from disappointment.  Instead, his gaze skittered from his captors to the swamp, where white filaments had all but eclipsed the landscape, and from there to the outgrowths beyond.  Made of the same stuff, they rose like peaks in stiffly whipped cream, smooth but organically irregular: at first no higher than the lip of the road but then more and more, mounting as the white-lace ground itself began to rise.  Further along, he glimpsed spires, catwalks, buttresses, and then layers of walls rising to form the outer limits of the city.  The road ahead ran straight and level, cutting a narrow notch into the depths.

Already it was grander and brighter than he could have imagined, yet his knowledge made it hollow.

The mild weather only enhanced his aversion.  Like Accursed Haaraka, like the Forest of Mists, this place shrugged off the natural chill of winter in preference for artificial warmth—and a sterile stillness that made the damp air hang on him like a cloak.  Not heavy enough to be oppressive but still there at the fringe of his senses, weighing him down.

He didn't want to be here.

It wasn't the surrender.  It wasn't the fear for his friends.  It wasn't the sensations or the threads or the uneasy shifting of the Guardian in his chest—still somehow here with him despite everything.  No.  More than that, his heart hurt at the idea of stepping into the Palace, of finally seeing the glory he'd longed for all these years, and knowing it for a lie.

Had he always been on this road?  Always been destined for disaster?

It hurt to think.  He was almost glad his captors couldn't stop bickering.

“The Emperor is on my side!” snapped the Field Marshal.

“Is he?”

“He rewards those who have proper respect for him.  Proper faith!  I am his High Templar, his standard-bearer, his fist around the throat of the unbelievers.  You are a throwback piece of spiritist filth, and your time is over.”

“Really?”

“I don't understand why he ever favored you, but I'm glad you've spurned him.  You could have been at his right hand, ruling over all, but you've pissed flames upon everything and now you will burn with it.  And I will take your place.  I will be the servant he smiles upon, the voice he attends to, the visionary who guides his—“

“
Daddy, Daddy, look at me, aren't I a good boy?
”

Enkhaelen's falsetto drew a garbled roar from the Field Marshal.  He swiped at the necromancer like a bear after a bee; light-footed, Enkhaelen dodged away.  Unfortunately, the White Flames had him surrounded; in a moment their threads had caught him again and forced him back into the Field Marshal's range.

From the shadow of his antlers, Cob watched as the Field Marshal grabbed the necromancer by the jaw.  The disparity between them was startling, Rackmar more than half a foot taller and twice as broad, his gauntlet big enough to cover Enkhaelen's face.  For a moment, florid anger matched with bland, almost mocking indifference, then the Field Marshal gave a sound of disgust.

“I'm tired of your taunts,” he said.  “If they are all you have, I should remove your tongue now and spare the Emperor the irritation.”

“Do you really think that would stop me?”

“Perhaps not, but it would be satisfying.”

“Go ahead then.  Stick something in my mouth and see what happens.”

The Field Marshal's face twisted, and Cob saw an opening.  The White Flames' helms were focused on the pair—even those who held his shackles—so if he struck now, he could take them off guard.  Hit them with a bellow and the heavy aura, shuck the tendrils then run...

He raised his fists and saw Enkhaelen's gaze snap to him.

Pain flared in his right cheek, digging into his jaw and teeth and eardrum like a million needles.  His lungs seized up, his legs unhinged.  Hands clutched his shoulders, forcing him upright; through the ringing in his good ear, he heard the Field Marshal say, “Throne's sake, what now?”

“The Guardian must have struggled,” answered the necromancer.  “Are you sure you can waste time on me?”

Cob tried to shake his head but it made him woozy, nauseated.  His right eye glittered with pain-stars.  In the depths, the Guardian hadn't moved, nor had the arcane bonds dissipated from him.  Not even the scratch of the mentalists' seeking fingers had changed, unable to reach him while he wore the antlers.

Then what...?

'Don't try to escape.'

He blinked.  It was Enkhaelen's voice, but not in his ears—in his head.  The hands pushed him forward and he stumbled along, looking up just enough to see the necromancer and the Field Marshal underway again, the road straining onward.

A few steps ahead of them, walking backward, was another Enkhaelen.

Cob glanced between them, confused.  The closer one in Midwinter white paid him no heed, apparently competing with the Field Marshal for the lead.  The other smiled pleasantly and tipped him a wave, his azure robe a glaring breach of ceremony.

'Good evening, Cob,' he said.  'I'll be your guide for this hog-crap.'

“Wh—“

'Don't speak.  Think.  You know how to do that, right?”

Two heartbeats in and you're already obnoxious.

'Perfect.'
The phantasm flashed him a grin, then gestured forward. 
'We can't talk long, so let's keep it civil.'

Looking past him, Cob saw that the walls that had risen around the road were now interlaced in a high arch, creating a forest-like tunnel into the city proper.  Every fiber held a faint light, obliterating any chance of shadows and creating a strange depthless radiance—a dreamy quality that made his eyes ache.  It was impossible to tell where the tunnel ended; the White Flames and pilgrims in their vanguard were only visible in movement, as matte smudges against the glow.

You stuck a splinter in me again
, Cob thought.

'Yes, when I tried to kill you.  It could have gone either way.'

What do you want?

'To save you from yourself.  No—to save all of us from you.'
  His grin became uneasy, teeth gritted behind it. 
'You know that the Dark isn't your friend, right?'

I'm not stupid.

'And yet there it is, bottled up inside you.  Waiting.  I'm almost impressed—you must have a deep connection with it to be able to bring it to the Palace—but this can't continue.  It's too unstable to be relied on.  If it doesn't eat you up by the time you reach the throne room, the Emperor will just disperse it.'

Cob narrowed his eyes. 
You're afraid I'll get you with it.

'Of course I'm afraid.  So is the Guardian.  So are your friends—or haven't you noticed?  But the Emperor isn't, because you can't hurt him.  To the Dark, even a tiny light feels like an attack, but to the Light all darkness is just a stain to be erased.  You have no power here.'

I'm not after the Emperor.

'To reach me, you have to get past him.'

Dubious, annoyed, but mostly confused, Cob thought,
Why are you telling me this?

'Because I'm trying to fix what I've done, and I can't do that if you get yourself and the Guardian swallowed by the Dark—or burned to ash.  You had a decent plan, sneaking in, but there were too many eyes on you.  I can catch their attention once we're close, but you have to be my counterpart, not my opposite.  Do you understand?'

Slowly, Cob shook his head.  Nothing made sense anymore.  Here he was, nearing the heart of the Light, yet all he felt was disappointment; here he was, three steps from his worst enemy, getting a lecture on how to help him.  Inside, the Guardian shifted restlessly, just as distrustful—but he couldn't trust the spirit either.

And then there was the Dark, and the taste of brine creeping up his throat.  Its cool hands were on his shoulders—
her
hands—and her breath in his ear...

His eyes pricked with tears.  He couldn't betray her.

I'm not gonna work with you
, he thought at Enkhaelen. 
You killed my father; you've used me and my friends; you started all this.  Everything is your fault, and I'm not gonna help you get away with it.

Enkhaelen half-laughed. 
'Get away with it?  If that was the point, I'd have succeeded long ago.  Listen, idiot child—'

No.

'—I didn't kill your father.  A part of you has to know it.  They've been lying to you, Cob—pretending to be in the right when they're really just angry and hurt.  I've heard these same words from the others' mouths too many times not to get it.  From your father, your mother, the crazy wolf-girl—'

Cob's heart jolted in his chest. 
My mother?  What did you do to my mother?

Enkhaelen blinked. 
'Nothing.  They didn't tell you?  She was the—'

'Stop!'
snapped a voice behind him, and Cob flinched, barely recognizing it as his father's.  Looking back, he saw Dernyel striding in his wake like a hunter, eyes full-black in a motionless face.  All the details were right, from the tight braid to the frown lines, the goat-hide mantle to the tips of his heavy boots, but there was nothing inside him—nothing human.

Behind him strode a greater shadow, as if cut out of the night.

'I don't bow to you,'
sneered Enkhaelen. 
'But I suppose this is for the boy to do.  Go ahead, Cob.   Ask them about your mother.'

He opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat.  Her arms twined around him, cold as mountain water, and her form molded against his back.  All around, the lights of the passageway dimmed, the figures of his captors disappearing into gloom until all that existed was his father, the necromancer, and her.

'Ask him why,'
she breathed.

His eyes were wet.  He couldn't help it.  The figure of his father tried to retreat as he reached out, and in his chest he felt the Guardian strain against the arcane bonds that held it—to no avail.  His hand locked on a hide-covered shoulder, and the road vanished.

In its place, the cave.

The force of the wind pinned the weather-flap against the wall, rain spilling in to smear soldiers' blood across the stone floor.  His leather slippers found little traction there, so he kicked them off, his feet adhering with the ease of long practice.  In his hands, the silver sword gleamed with reflected lightning.

“We need to talk,”
said the Ravager in the entryway. 
“Quick, before more of them come.”

He gritted his teeth, hands clenched around the hilt.  Behind him, wife and child trembled among the blankets.  He had sworn to fight for them, to release their land and people from the Empire's shackles—had spent so long away, hoping to keep them safe with his absence.

Now this one had come here...

“I don't want to fight you, Dir Niul.”

The Guardian screamed defiance in his heart, and he joined it from the depths of his lungs.  His footsteps thundered on the stone, the blade angled for that traitor's neck—to take his head off and send another corpse below—

Wings.  White wings, white talons in his shoulders.  Thin air at the point of his sword and beneath his feet as he was wrenched from the ledge.  Into the streaming rain—

Released—

Falling in darkness, twisting himself to stare upward at the white shape following him, wings tucked into a stoop.  The ground rushed up from below but he didn't fear it—had hit it many times before, and come up running.

But as the talons neared, he felt an alien panic rise in his throat, and saw the frenzied frustration in the enemy's eyes.

“Don't—“

The Guardian tore away like a shadow in sunlight, and he was—

'No,'
said his mother in the sudden darkness. 
'Not that memory.  Remember me.'