The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (35 page)

*****

It took nearly a mark for Scryer Mako and the base-camp mages to transfer the pieces of a proper portal-frame.  Sarovy stood patient throughout the process, neither fidgeting with his papers nor smacking the twitchy Specialist Weshker with them.  Scryer Mako and Magus Voorkei took another quarter-mark to assemble the door-like frame and test it before opening it to traffic.

As it cast a shimmering light through the chamber, Sarovy straightened to full attention.

Strung between the hooks on the inside of the frame, the pane of swirling colors slowly resolved into an image: two white-robed figures, a handful of Crimson soldiers, and the well-warded walls of the casting chamber in the Crimson camp.  Within moments, the image became an opening, with sound and scent and sensation flooding through the portal instead of just sight: ozone from the chamber's residual magic, humidity from the southern storms, and the quiet chanting and muttered conversations of the camp-siders.

Sarovy stepped forward, scanning the crowd for Field Marshal Rackmar.  As expected, he was not in evidence, and though the camp-side soldiers wore the armor and peaked helms of the General's guard, none of them bore a badge of rank higher than lieutenant.

Disappointment sank like a stone in his gut.  He knew better but he could not control it.

“The exchange is as stated, then?” he said, turning his attention to the white-robes.  “The Field Marshal will take two-thirds of my well-coordinated arcane team and replace them with his selections?”

“Why, no,” said the taller of the white-robes, a sharp-faced man with dusky hair raked back in loose feathers.  He held a scroll in one gloved hand, and offered it through the portal with a smirk.  “The Field Marshal has considered your plea and returned an adjusted verdict.”

Sarovy took the scroll and unfurled it to skim quickly.  Then again at a more proper pace.

I, Argus Rackmar, Field Marshal of the Imperial Armies and Interim General of the Imperial Third Army the Crimson Claw, do on this day so Authorize the Transfer of one Master Warder Edarwyn Tanvolthene of the White Flame and one Enlightened Messenger Aran Cortine of the Risen Phoenix Light to the Crimson Claw First Aggregate Company, known as Blaze Company.  In addition I Authorize the Transfer of one Specialist Weshker of Blaze Company to the Crimson Claw Honor Guard, pending Review of Talents.  As Witnessed in the Glory of the Imperial Light, so let it be done.

Rackmar's scrawled signature, the red seal of the Crimson and the white of the White Flame ended the text.

Nothing about transferring his mages.  And an Enlightened Messenger was...

He looked up quickly, eyeing the two white-robes through the portal.  The one that had handed him the scroll was obviously a mage, his robe the traditional cut with the bell-sleeves that fell to hide his hands, the fabric detailed with intricate metallic sigils, the collar clasped with the silver insignia of the Silent Circle.

The other man, also garbed in white, was a different story.  On second glance he wore not robes but vestments, tailored close about the torso then flaring below, with the winged star of the Risen Phoenix Light embroidered heavily in white thread—one set of wings stretching up, across and over the shoulders like a yoke, the second set crossing the ribs then flowing to the back, the lowest arching over the hips then falling down the sides of the legs.  Though the wings held detail down to the last feather, the long four-pointed star that centered them was plain, running from the cleft of the man's collar to the beginning of the riding slit.  Over it, he wore the twisted cord of the worldly harness draped across his shoulders like a chain.  It was said to be all that held the enlightened to the earth.  His was white from collar to mid-ribs, and black down the rest of its length: the measure of darkness he had yet to burn away.

By his short sun-bleached hair and ruddy skin, he was a Daecian.  By his eyes—full white, with no sign of iris or pupil—he had gazed upon the Light and not flinched.

As if conscious of his stare, the blind priest smiled and inclined his head.  “With your permission, captain, shall we cross?”  He had a measured, warm voice, and kept his blank stare slightly lowered as if aware of its unnerving nature.

“Yes.  You have my permission, and I bid you welcome,” said Sarovy, for he could think of no objections.  That Rackmar had deigned to send him a mage after conceding him his foreigners was a surprise, and the priest even more so.  He had not seen a priest since his exile.  General Aradysson had banned them from the Crimson Army.

The mage came through first without batting a lash.  The priest paused as if to compose himself, then followed with blank eyes closed, a shudder passing through him as he crossed.

Sarovy held out his hand automatically to them, aware that mages preferred a clasp to the traditional knuckle-tap of the military.  The mage took it good-naturedly, hand long and bony under the glove, and said, “Edarwyn Tanvolthene, though Edar is fine.  I'm sure it will be a pleasure to work with you.  I've heard much.”

“Blaze Company Captain Firkad Sarovy.  I have heard nothing.”

“Just as well, just as well,” said Tanvolthene wryly, then glanced to the rest of the mages and officers.  “Ah, and these look like my new comrades.  If I may?”

“As you will.”

Tanvolthene swept past him, already cheerfully greeting the others, and he did not need to look back to know the doubt on their faces: the timbre of Voorkei's voice and Presh's first sardonic greeting, as well as Scryer Mako's presence in his head, all told him of their wariness.

His attention, though, was taken by the priest.  Unsure how to offer a hand to a blind man, he started, “Enlightened Messenger—“

The priest waved dismissively.  “Messenger Cortine is sufficient.  I am told that the Crimson Army is out of touch with the faith, so I do not expect reverence.  My superiors selected me for this task because of my experience with the straying devout.  I apologize if you had anticipated another mage, for I cannot serve in that capacity.”

“No apology needed,” said Sarovy.  “I must warn you, though, that there are foreigners in our ranks who may find your presence discomfiting.”

“I am not here to proselytize, captain, though it saddens me that your men have not been shown the Light.  The Field Marshal wishes me to combat your Shadow Cult enemies; thus, my role here is more that of a warrior than a priest.  Still, those who ask for the guidance of the Light shall receive it.”

“Acceptable,” said Sarovy.  “If you require assistance, I can assign a detail to you.”

“Not necessary.  My path is ever illuminated for me.  Though if you could spare a small space for a chapel, it would be appreciated.”

“Of course.”

Abruptly, the Messenger tilted his head and stepped forward with an odd smile.  Sarovy would have stepped back, but those blank white eyes seemed to dig into him, excavating a feeling he could not name.  “Ah.  Interesting,” said the priest, then reached up to trace the winged star on Sarovy's forehead with two fingers: one pair of wings lofting to his hairline, one spread wide across his brow, one bent low over his eyes.

The touch sent a rush of fire through Sarovy's head, knotting at the base of his skull and tripping down his spine to weaken every limb.  He had not felt this in a decade, and never so strong, so that when Messenger Cortine scribed the lowest wings, it was enough to send him to one knee.  Head bowed, eyes closed, he saw again the incandescent shape, the burning entity he had gazed upon in the Palace—

Then Messenger Cortine drew a finger up the middle of Sarovy's brow to mark the star, and his strength returned in a flood.  Not just what he had lost but a sense of stability, of support, and a clarity that had so long been lacking from his life.  His worries shed away like so much ash.

As the Messenger's hand left him, he rose slowly, dazzled but steady and finally calm.  Smiling, the Messenger inclined his head and said, “I apologize.  I am interrupting your trade.”

Sarovy blinked, then looked to Specialist Weshker, who was staring at him wide-eyed.  He could not fathom the reason for that expression.  “Are you prepared, Specialist?” he said.

“Uh...yessir.”

“Then you are released to the service of the Crimson Claw Honor Guard.”

The Corvishman blinked, then stooped to hoist his footlocker across his shoulder, careful of his still-splinted wrist.  The locker seemed light, probably all but empty.  A tentative step toward the portal, a glance back, and then a few more steps as Sarovy nodded his encouragement.  Finally, after several deep breaths at the very threshold, he flung himself through.

His leap turned into a stumble then a doubled-over, choking series of retching noises, the footlocker hitting the ground.  Sarovy shook his head.  That was not the way he would have recommended someone take their first portal jaunt.

The Crimsons gathered to assist him though, so after a moment's observation, Sarovy turned from the portal to regard the room.  Already Voorkei and the new mage Tanvolthene were talking animatedly in Gheshvan, Scryer Mako on the sideline translating for Presh, and Messenger Cortine had been crowded by three of the officers—Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek, Shield-Sergeant Rallant and Archer-Sergeant Korr.  The other officers stood back, mumbling amongst themselves, as the Messenger smiled obligingly at Rallant and scribed the winged star on his forehead to the same effect.

Absently, watching this, Sarovy touched his brow and thought he felt something there.  Chalk or dust, some kind of mark.  But when he drew his fingers away, they were clean, and the Messenger had sent Vrallek to his knees, and it all seemed strange but right.

He called on Scryer Mako to deactivate the portal, called on the others to clear the way so he could find a proper chapel-room for Messenger Cortine to bless.  The Messenger's smile felt like sunlight on his back as he swept past, full of answers to his dilemmas, full of fire.

No more fear.

*****

On the base-camp side, Weshker swallowed down the acid taste of bile.  Several hands held him up but his legs still felt like water. 
Pike magic
, he thought,
pike all of this, I knew it was a bad idea and now I'm back where the monster can get me...

But he had the crows on his side, and Sanava.  She would know what to do.

“Specialist Weshker?”

He looked up woozily then blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating.  The ranks of Crimson soldiers had parted, allowing two women in closely-tailored and very flattering white leather to approach.  The one in the lead had sun-lightened, jaw-length hair in a flirty cut and eyes that ran all over him, though he could not say whether they approved or laughed.  The other was just as fair, her hair bound back in loose plaits from a face blank of interest.  They moved with confidence—almost swagger—and bore military-police truncheons at their hips but no Army insignia, just a stylized flame etched in the leather above the right breast.

And a golden teardrop pendant at the neckline.

“Weshker—may I call you Wes?  I'm Nerice of the Field Marshal's guard,” said the leader.  Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, making her seem too young for her role.  “This is Pendriel.  We're to see you to your quarters and help you...settle in.”

Her tone went up his spine like a warm finger, and he stared.  A part of him was screaming
specialist! danger! danger!
and another howled about loyalty to Sanava, but those necklines were cut awfully low, and the curl of Nerice's lips was awfully friendly.

“Uh, yeh.  Wes's fine,” he managed, voice rough.  “Nice t'meet yeh.  I'm yers now, I guess, so yeh set the agenda...”

“Come then,” said Nerice, her eyes deep amber wells of amusement.  “Let's get started.”

Weshker shouldered his footlocker and nodded, struggling not to stare as they turned to lead the way.  They had nice long legs, both of them, and the leather followed every curve.

He didn't notice the look they traded.  At this point, he wouldn't have noticed a war.

Chapter 9 – Borderline

It smelled of rain where he was, and cold stone, and old wood.  But most of all it smelled of home.  The blankets and the goat-hide cover lay heavy over him, and in his arms the woman's body was soft beneath her nightdress.  Her cool fingers stroked the nape of his neck, and he tucked his head against her shoulder, breathing slow, feeling more at peace than he could remember.

“Ask him why,” she murmured in his ear.

He did not want to stir, nor think, nor open his eyes.  It was good enough to just be here with the scent of her, herbs and soap and skin, in the swaddling confines of this close space as thunder rumbled in the distance.  He wanted to stay here with her arms loose around him, his clasped behind her back, the slight rasp of homespun cloth against his cheek.

“Ask him why he hides from you,” she said again, her breath like frost.

“Mmf.  Why,” he mumbled reluctantly, and hugged her closer, hoping she would let it go.  Let him rest.

“Ask him, Ko Vrin.”

His name peeled some of the muzziness away, and he opened his eyes a crack, unhappy with being disturbed and unsure what she wanted.  From up close, the curve of her brown neck and her long, fine hair enticed him; if not for the prodding of her voice, he would have pressed his mouth there and tried to make her forget this too.  But her fingers urged his face upward and the cover slipped from his cheek, exposing the ceiling to his peripheral vision.  Though firelight barely traced the rough-worked stone, each chip was achingly familiar.

A queer sensation radiated down his spine in time with the tickle of her nails.  “Fi—“ he started to say, but the name caught in his mouth because he knew it was wrong.  He knew this place, from the drip of water outside the leather curtains to the shadows of the furniture that flickered up the walls as the firewood cracked and popped.  Knew the cool breath against his forehead—or had, back when it had been warm.

“This—“ he said, trying to push himself up.  She let him.

The goat-hide cover fell back, the blankets slithering from his shoulders, and all he could think was,
At least I dream myself clothed
, because he knew this was not real—knew it could not be his mother in his bed.  Not stretching languidly like that, her black hair spread in waves across the cushions, her eyes like ink, the bow of her mouth unbent by fear or sorrow.  The bodice of her nightdress moved with her calm breath, and he withdrew his hand from her hip as if burned.

“Ask him why he hides his memories from you, Ko Vrin,” she murmured, the depths of her mouth as black as night.

He looked away—he had to—and in the process saw the room.  It was home as he remembered it: the shelves chiseled into the walls, the woven baskets, the gash in the rock that led to the goats' pens, the leather flaps in the archway, the hearth and the clothes-trunks and the small table.

His father sat there, cross-legged on a cushion, his back to them.  Not in Guardian armor but in his old hide coat with his braid hanging to the floor, fine strands of silver just beginning to mar its darkness.  The table was set up for black-and-white, the polished stones reflecting firelight in subtle glints.

“Ask him,” she said again, then curved herself more comfortably in the bedclothes, her hip nudging his thigh.  He drew his legs up automatically, shaken, and tried to will himself awake, but it did nothing.

“Wh—  Why?” he said finally, hoping that if he obeyed, this would end.

His father did not speak, did not turn, though by his slight shift of posture Cob knew he had heard.  So Cob tried again.  “Why won't you show me what really happened?  Did you think I wouldn't listen if it didn't seem like you were the victims?  I don't need any prodding to do this now, father.  Whatever I see, it won't change my mission.”

Dernyel did not answer, only picked up one of the pieces, a white stone.  As he regarded it in profile, Cob saw the strain in the lines of his eyes and mouth.

“You want to say something,” Cob prompted, trying to keep calm even as fingers traced idly along the side of his clothed leg.  “I'm with you now.  You can tell me the truth.”

Shaking his head, Dernyel turned the stone over to present its black face.  That uncommunicative gesture made anger surge in Cob's chest, and he grabbed at the wall and started to rise.  Sharp nails bit into his calf.

The top of his head hit dirt, knocking loose grains into his hair and down his collar.  He blinked and all was black—no fireplace, no storm scent, no rumbling thunder, just the sensation of earth beneath him and a warm, somnolent weight in his arms.

He barely kept from jerking away, his dreaming nerves certain that this was still his home.  At least his senses knew the difference—knew that the woman with her back to his chest was not a nightmare but Fiora.  She smelled right, of exertion-sweat and dirt and pine and girl, and she felt right too, her curly hair bunched against his cheek, her compact build tucked neatly against him, his hand up her tunic to cup a warm breast.  Her heart beat slow beneath his palm.

It was him who felt wrong.

Carefully he extricated himself.  She made a soft distressed noise, but did not wake.  It hurt him to leave, but his thoughts were a jumble, and so—miserably—was his libido, and he had to get out.  Out of the makeshift cave, out into the air and sky and enough space to run away.

His feet told him where the exit was, and where his friends were too: Dasira and Lark dozing back-to-back with Arik in wolf-form lying over their legs like a rug, and Ilshenrir up above, his presence like starlight on earth.  Cob wanted no company, but could not bear to stay cooped up in this darkness, so picked his way to the opening and pulled himself out through the protective ward into the cold.

An icy wind immediately raked fingers through his hair, and he shivered at the memory of the dream.  He stayed there at the cave's edge, rasping in breaths of frost, until his heart stopped hammering quite so hard.

It was far from his first visitation, and he knew it was not his mother.  She was five years dead with no excuse to return now.  Whatever dire entity dared use her face, her voice, was just trying to manipulate him, and he could not let it win.

Yet in the dream, she felt so real...

He ran a hand over his face, then smacked himself a few times for good measure.  He was on a mission and this hog-crap wasn't helping.  Perhaps it was just his mind messing with him, or perhaps that Nightmare god had planted a seed while he walked through Enkhaelen's terrors.  He was the only one who hadn't hallucinated his own threat.

Just let it go
, he thought, and turned his gaze skyward.  In the east—the direction from which they'd come—the land rose into the Garnet Mountains, dark with evergreens and brown broadleafs.  According to Dasira, they were in the range's rain-shadow now and would see no more snow.  The first glow of dawn seeped up beyond the ragged peaks, while just above hung the Eye of Night, its trajectory inclining it toward the sun.  He wondered if this year would have a Darkness Day eclipse to go with the festival.  It seemed a bad omen.

“They are not as I remember,” came Ilshenrir's hollow voice behind him.

Cob glanced back to find him perched atop the hill that covered the cave, gaze upturned to the dim sky.  He looked distinctly inhuman now, washed of color and with eyes so wide they seemed to swallow the top half of his face, his hair and clothes melded into thick petal-like layers.  Even his concealing cloak had split apart.  It was difficult to tell if there was a body beneath.

“What're you doin'?” Cob said, dark thoughts banished by the sight.

“This is how we rest,” said the wraith, mouth unmoving.  It and the faint arch of his nose were all that remained human about his face, but even they seemed carved there.  “I am absorbing light from the stars; I must take it in day and night if I wish to be of use to you again.  I hope that the salt desert will be bright.”

“You're...  You look like a glass pine-cone.”

The strange petals shivered slightly, their susurrus almost like laughter.  “I apologize if it distresses you.”

“No, s'all right.  Whatever y' have to do.  It's jus'...”

“We do not belong here, Guardian.  It is evident in all that we are.”

“Cob.  Call me Cob.  When I don't have the antlers, I'm not the Guardian.”

The wraith inclined his head, and those wide eyes blinked down to human size, the carved mouth softening into a smile.  “Yes, of course.  Cob.  I apologize.”

“Y' don't have to...”  Cob trailed off with a sigh.  “What were you sayin'?”

“The stars.”  The pseudo-fabric separated at the shoulder, releasing a surprisingly human arm in a long grey glove.  “There is something...puzzling about them,” the wraith continued, pointing at the sky.  “They are difficult to observe from Syllastria and the White Isle, but what I see here is not what my memory tells me I should.”  He shook his head, petal-like hair fracturing into normal strands at the motion.  “Perhaps I am simply experiencing the ghosts of my old lives.”

“Old lives, like before y' fell to earth?”

“No.”  The wraith stepped down from the rocks, each motion turning him more human.  By the time he came to stand by Cob's spot, he looked like himself, though tired.  “My current life has spanned two centuries.  Before that, I am not certain who I was, or upon which side I stood.  The haelhene seek out our fallen so that they may be rehomed on the Isle, but the reincarnation process is...traumatic, and few remember their former existence.  Pieces sometimes float to the surface, but it is hard to discern their context.”

Cob frowned.  “So...you ended up with the mist-wraiths after a fight, right?”

“After my raiding flight was brought down upon the Wrecking Shore, yes.  We had been in search of natives for my House's experiments.”

“What?”

The wraith's mouth curved faintly.  “You have seen Haaraka, and Akarridi, and tasted the bite of the black blades.  You know that some of my people practice necromancy.  Who do you think they practice on?  We do not have flesh, and our essences do not bend in such ways.  I remember when your Empire first extended a treaty to us, permitting our harvests in exchange for our covert aid.  It was shortly before I was brought down—just over a century ago.”

Cob's mouth went dry.  He wasn't sure what to ask about first: the Akarriden blades, the experiments, or the Empire's complicity.

Instead, he chose avoidance.  “You have Houses?  Like families?”

Ilshenrir turned a questioning eye on him.  “In a way, I suppose.  There are still a few among the haelhene who remember the fall—who have never died.  They are the strongest, and can subjugate lesser haelhene to their will.  Over time, this has led to the formation of competing factions within our—
their
territories, who name themselves after their Elder and seek loose essences or weak enemies to be subjugated into the House.  I was called back to life by Elder Mallandriach, and so I was
sa Mallandriach
.”

“But not anymore?”

An odd expression crossed the wraith's face, unreadable by starlight.  “I was retrieved by an airahene called Vallindas, who helped me understand the wrongs the haelhene had done, and who advocated for me when the others wanted me subjugated into their service.  I shed Mallandriach's influence naturally over time.”

“So subjugation...  Y' can all do it?”

“Yes, provided our essence can overpower that of our opponent.  The airahene use it as punishment upon those who commit crimes; the haelhene use it wherever they see a weakness.”

“Not surprised y' came with me, then.”

“It is pleasant to be free of strictures.  I side with the airahene in all matters, but it has not been the same since Vallindas was lost.  Even my
eshar
Seimaranth, whom you met, is cold in comparison.”

Cob raised his brows.  He remembered the wine-colored wraith, whose bare hint of empathy had outshone the other airahene like a bonfire against candles.  Back then, he'd approved of that more-human reaction without considering it, but now...  “Um.  Were you...together?”

“'Together'?” the wraith echoed, then smiled faintly.  “We communed often.  There were few barriers between us.  In time, perhaps there would have been none.  But duty called, and Vallindas is in the Grey now.  I know not where.”

“What happened?”

“Another futile battle between our kinds.  It became chaotic, I am told, with the fallen spread far and wide—and over human territory, so there is speculation that the broken shells were taken by them.  There are some who sell our pieces as charms.”

“Like that piece y' gave Lark?”

“That is my living substance.  It is not quite the same.”

Cob made a face, rubbing at one of the thorn-spots at his collarbone.  “So if wraiths attacked us—say, in the desert—you could get control of 'em?”

“If I made direct contact and had the strength to overpower them, yes.  But it is not a reliable tactic.”

“What if I caught a wraith?  With roots and such?”

“Being connected to the earth does drain us, but again, it is not reliable.  I cannot control an army of wraiths for you.”