The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (30 page)

Enkhaelen chuckled.  “I remember those classes.  Such crap.  There is no 'Night Herself'.”

“But how do you explain the Eye of Night?”

“I don't know, I'm not an astronomer.  Perhaps she's a conflation of the Dread Triad.  Do you know much of the gods?”

“I know Law, the Light, ah...the witch-goddess...the Shadow Lord...”

“Three great gods.  Six great goddesses.  Half of them in the Trifold, the other half—the Nemesis of Seeking, the Blood Goddess of Frenzy, the Lady of Ruin—in the Dread Triad.  A few lesser deities, mostly the Blood Goddess's so-called sons: Daenivar of Nightmares, Rhehevrok of Massacres.  And then the quiet gods.  Surou, Kurthiten, Moon-Shadow.”

Geraad blinked.  “I had no idea.”

“Not many do.  Why would we, when the Imperial Light is all we need?”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Geraad said, “What does this have to do with the Seals?”

“Nothing.  Nothing at all.  The gods didn't do it; we did.”

“We?”

“A group of mages, spiritists, a few priests and wraiths.  No direct godly intervention; that's been outlawed since the Gods' Pact.”

“I don't understand.”

“What did the histories tell you about the Portal?  The Outsider?”

Geraad squinted, consulting his memory.  “That it wasn't dark but radiant—so bright that it could be seen from hundreds of miles away.  That its hordes swept across the empire of Lisalhan and threatened all the others, and when the Seals came down, that whole territory and all of the invaders were crushed into the sea.”

“Did it mention that the Lisalhanians made the Portal?”

“Yes.  By accessing old forbidden magics.  I'd thought they were Dark cultists, but they were mages?”

“Indeed.”

“And the Outsider was—“

He stopped, dire heresy on the tip of his tongue.  It was too much of a leap, too fantastical—too horrific—to entertain.  Just because the Outsider was described as radiant, it didn't mean...

“For a long time, the Seals stayed closed,” said Enkhaelen.  “Empires rose and fell, people fought as they always do, and the world moved on.  But the Seals weren't perfect.  There were gaps—tiny gaps, just big enough for whispers to slip through.

“And the Outsider was still there.  Watching, waiting, trying to get back in.  It was only a matter of time before someone listened.  Actually—“  Enkhaelen chuckled.  “Someone probably listened immediately.  Not all the Outsider's cultists died in the wars or the disasters.  But there were only a few people who had influence over the Seals, and as the mortals died off, the pool of candidates shrank to one: the Ravager.”

“Who?” said Geraad.  “Or...what?  I've seen references, but...”

“A spirit.  A shard of the original Great Spirit that gave birth to all animal life.  Once it had been like a god, but by the time the Seals were made it had lost much of its relevance and was more of a...roving personality.  Still, it was powerful, and had participated in the Sealing—designed it actually.  And most importantly, it was bound to the will of its vessel.

“The Outsider whispered to the vessel.  The Outsider made...offers.  And the vessel used the Ravager to tamper with the Seals and let the Outsider back in.”

Cautiously, Geraad looked to Enkhaelen.  He was fixated on his work, head bent, unruly hair caught back by silver pins, and the bland detachment in his voice could have meant anything.  As desperately as Geraad wanted to ask,
Was it you?
he dared not.

“When was this?” he asked instead.

“Four hundred and thirteen years ago.”

“But the Empire isn't even half that old.  What does it have to do with—“

Enkhaelen held up a hand for silence, some kind of hooked tool pinched between his fingers.  Geraad hadn't seen him get it.  “Remember the Outsider's cultists?  There were never many, and they were endlessly persecuted, so by the time the Outsider returned, there were only a few left hiding in forsaken little enclaves.  It takes time to build an empire from nothing.”

“But the Portal...  Couldn't the Outsider just have come through?”

“The Portal is still shut.  The vessel didn't remove the Seals, just shifted them.  The Outsider had to work through its agents.  Luckily for it, the War of the Lion and Eagle had just ended, so the land it entered was a shambles.”

Now that was a reference Geraad understood.  The War of the Lion and Eagle had been the last gasp of two empires: Ruen Wyn, which had stood where the Risen Phoenix Empire was now, and its western enemy Altaera, since renamed Jernizan.  Ruen Wyn had been a degenerate land full of spiritist tribes and beastfolk, hostile to the arcane arts; according to his history classes, the Silent Circle had sided with Altaera in the war and helped break the will of the beasts, allowing Altaera's civilizing and humanizing forces into the Heartlands.

Most of the population of Wyndon, his home, were direct descendants of those Altaeran soldiers and settlers.  They had driven the barbaric natives into the mountains, and had been consolidating their hold on the inner Heartlands when the main body of the Altaeran Empire collapsed into civil war.  Cut off by the Rift and abandoned by their leaders, the settlers had retreated to their fortresses in Wyndon to resist the depredations of the mountain tribes, now called the Corvish—a struggle that continued to this day.

Still hesitant to connect this Outsider with his god, Geraad said, “I thought the Altaerans brought the Light here with them.  Back before they started worshiping a cat.”

Enkhaelen shook his head.  “They were the people of Law, not Light.  They turned to Athalarr the Lion when Law was slain.  The true followers of the Light are in the south—what's now Yezad and Padras.”

“The heretics we're fighting now?  But that's the False Light.”

Enkhaelen glanced up slightly, expression wry.  “Is it?”

“You've seen the Emperor.  You've experienced his...his...  You said he's a god.”

“Mm.”

“Are you saying it's a lie?”

Looking back to his work, Enkhaelen said, “I'm not a follower.  I don't really...understand religious feeling.  And I haven't met many gods.  Is he powerful?  Yes.  Is he worshiped?  Obviously.  Can he grant his followers' desires?  Sometimes.  Is this what makes a god?”

Geraad shook his head.  “It's beyond that.  You don't feel anything when you think of the Light?  Or when he...looks into you?”

“Most times, I don't feel anything at all.”

Now that was a lie.  The sheer force of Enkhaelen's emotions had nearly overwhelmed Geraad in the Palace, and there was animation to his expression even when his mood seemed muted.  A corpse-face should have been the perfect mask, but the man could not contain himself.

“Well, about the cult?” Geraad said finally, retreating to safe ground.

“Cult.  Yes.”  Enkhaelen leaned in with the hooked implement to tug at the wires strung between bones, then twist them tight.  “The cultists were mostly in Daecia Swamp, where there happens to be a Seal.  Perhaps the Outsider had been whispering to them through it.  But with the Outsider's return, they started building, expanding, recruiting.  Spreading their influence to the neighboring settlements.

“These are the parts I'm not sure on.  I know that there were plagues, mostly blamed on the Swamp Hag and other spirits.  I know that the swamp expanded, and that Daecia City was relocated because of it.  I know that the whole kingdom progressively cut itself off from the outside world, and when it reopened its borders, it had a king named Aradys.

“I know that the Long Darkness came near the middle of his reign, which had already seen mass murders of Silent Circle mages and the death of the God of Law.  I have heard that he brought the Light back to the world with some great ritual and subsequently declared himself Risen Phoenix Emperor.  I know he spent another forty years wearing that title, bending the Heartland kingdoms to his will, and presiding over the Shamanic Purges before passing the crown to Aradys II.”

“I've heard of the Shamanic Purges,” said Geraad.  “Because the spiritists had been killing the mages, right?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“So you weren't...um.  You weren't there?”

“Why would I have been there, Geraad?”

“Because—“ 
You use your minions to kill mages now.
  “Because you're old enough.”

Enkhaelen smiled slightly, not unamused.  As nervous as Geraad felt about these questions, the necromancer's current mood made him feel like they were permitted.  Like he wanted to talk.  “'Old enough'...  Yes, true.  But no, I wasn't there.”

“May I ask why?”

“No.”

“May I ask...why you're here now?”

Enkhaelen gestured around the laboratory.  “I have my uses.”

Questions swarmed—about the corpses, the black-robes, the Citadel—but Geraad knew he couldn't ask them.  Instead, he said slowly, “Like what you did to those women in the Palace?”

Tension crossed the necromancer's face, and Geraad's stomach dipped.  “Have you ever worked with the Imperial specialists?” said Enkhaelen.  “Or the White Flame?”

“No.”

“Then you haven't seen them—my projects.  They call me 'Maker'.  The Emperor wanted me to recreate his old subjects from the flesh of his new ones, so that they would be ready for a brighter, harsher world.  And I tried.  I enjoyed the process.  Designing, adapting, troubleshooting, field-testing.  It was a great challenge.

“But I...made some mistakes.  And when I tried to fix them, he wouldn't let me.  He didn't care about the damage involved, as long as his subjects worked to his specifications.  And now my errors have become the way.  No one here has ever known anything but the Light.”

A shiver ran up Geraad's spine.  He wasn't sure what Enkhaelen was talking about, but the memory of the worshipful masses being drawn into the Palace was illustration enough.  And if his mental trace was true...  “You can't leave?” he guessed.

Enkhaelen's gaze slid to him, cold and fixed.  “I serve by choice, Iskaen.  I have been given all that I asked for.”

That's not a 'no'.

But the change of address was not lost on him.  He remembered the mentalists in the Palace, their probes sunk deep into Enkhaelen's thoughts; were they listening even now? “Yes.  Of course.  Obviously.  I mean, you have influence everywhere.  The Circle, the Inquisition, the Emperor...”  He blanched, realizing he was babbling.

“Oh yes, all my influence.  I'm practically the linchpin of the Empire.”  Enkhaelen gestured with the hooked tool.  “You are distracting me, Iskaen.  Go check on the hawk.”

Mutely, he obeyed, his mind ticking over all that he had just learned.  Some of it fit neatly into his reading, but other pieces floated free, in conflict with the texts.  Could he trust Enkhaelen to be more truthful than the histories?

Could he trust Enkhaelen at all?

Pikes, even the answers just bring more questions.

The scrying mirror showed him nothing but snow and trees.  Cob and his companions were lost to view, wandering through the Garnet Mountains for no apparent reason.

What part did that boy even play in this?  Geraad couldn't fathom it, no more than he knew why the Gold Army cared so much about what he'd seen that they would break his hands for it.  Black antlers, white wings...

The one with the wings had been Enkhaelen.  He knew that now.  Did that make him the Ravager?  Was Cob a balancing force—a spirit that broke magic instead of wielded it?

Whose side was he on?

His gaze fell to the crystal arrowhead, back in place beside the mirror.  According to Rian, it belonged to Cob, and when he touched it he could feel a dim psychic imprint still lingering.  He had used such imprints before, to track missing persons and identify assassins, and the thought occurred that he could do so with Cob.

He could find him.  Send a message.

Saying...what?

Everything.

Frowning, he tried to dissuade himself.  He had already warned Rian off from stealing the arrowhead; Enkhaelen always kept it out in the open, so there was no way to take it without him noticing.  And the necromancer's plans seemed tied to it somehow—if only as a reminder of how Cob's comrades had shot him.  Was he using it to trace the boy?

If so, would his scrying fail if it was removed?

Was helping Cob worth his life?

It was worth my hands.

But that was back when he was a prisoner of the Gold mages, with death his worst fear.  What would become of him when Enkhaelen learned?

His fingers curled around the arrowhead, and with feigned casualness he slid it into his pocket.  No outcry came.

I hope you're worth it, Cob.  I hope you can do something, because Light knows I can't.

*****

Enkhaelen waited until the door closed in Geraad's wake, then disengaged from his work and pulled the sheets over the corpse.  He had other projects to check, other tools to prepare.

Over by the casting circles, his fused blades still throbbed with varicolored light.  They needed longer to cool; his wards would not save him if he touched them right now.