The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (41 page)

“When the Sealing occurred, it tilted the land—including the inner sea, so that the eastern ocean no longer fed it.  As it shrank, the humans followed its edges inward, closer to us.  We were content in harvesting them.

“Then, four hundred years ago, the water began to drain precipitously.  I do not know why, only that it disappeared in a matter of decades, leaving thick deposits of salt and other minerals encrusted around Hlacaasteia.  My people are not swift in our reactions; by the time we realized the danger, we could not break free.  The humans have withdrawn, but we can not.”

“Well, that's what you get,” said Lark.  “But why even bother with us?”

“We...”  Ilshenrir trailed off and looked thoughtful, as if deciding how to phrase it.  “We are revolted by the idea of flesh, but we see how you flesh-folk are favored by this world.  How you can perceive and interact with entities and energies that we can not.  We wish to harness some of you to our will, so that when it comes time to eradicate you, we will not be dependent on our own unreliable senses.  To that end, we steal you and change you to serve our purposes.  The research station at Akarridi refines your souls into weapons which are proof against all but our own crystal blades.  The White Isle experiments with biological and necromantic manipulation to create the perfect minions.  And Hlacaasteia, before its isolation, was our center of Grey studies—using your kind as test subjects to discern the properties of that realm so that we might bridge it to once more assault the spirits.”

Silence fell as he finished.  Lark's mouth hung open—the chatterbox struck dumb for once.  As for Dasira, she could not ignore the hairs standing up on the back of her neck.  She had been around haelhene in the Palace, but never had one so plainly stated its goals.

“I don't think the Emperor would approve of eradication,” she said finally.

“We expect not.”

She blinked, surprised, but Lark found her voice first.  “So...your people and the Emperor aren't allies?”

“Oh, we are.”

“But you just said...”

“An alliance is an arrangement of convenience, meant as temporary.  We know that had he the power to destroy us, he would do so.  Likewise, had we the power to destroy him, we would not hesitate.  As neither of us can be assured of annihilating the other safely, we opt to ally against those who wish both of us ill—both intending, I'm sure, to turn on the other the moment it becomes feasible.”

“Why do you want to kill us?” said Lark, eyes wide.  “We're not doing anything to you.”

“Your existence feeds the spirits and perpetuates the life of the world.  Until it is dead, we can not escape.”

“You—  What—“

“Please understand that I do not agree with this,” said the wraith, though his tone held no apology.  “Only the haelhene plot thus.  The airahene who rescued me are not comfortable in this world but neither will they tear it apart in order to flee, and our more distant kin—the tiiahene, the luuihene—have made efforts to naturalize.  They oppose my people as much as the spirits do.  I can not say what we have lost from becoming terrestrial, or if we could gain it back by leaving, but I know that we must not attempt escape if doing so would destroy everything in our wake.  There may be a more equitable way, and we are not without time.”

Lark stared at him but said nothing, and for a while a thoughtful silence reigned as they walked in the tracks of the cart, the ground too hard-baked to kick up dust.  Finally, she said, “I never thought I'd be here doing this, and I can't say I'm thrilled, but...I'm glad to hear the truth of these things.  And I'm glad you're comfortable speaking freely.”

“We are...friends, yes?” said Ilshenrir.  “Not allies.  I think our goals do not entirely intersect.  But I would not harm any of you for any purpose.”

“Not even if we were plotting against each other?” said Dasira in an undertone.  Ilshenrir gave her a puzzled look; Lark's was chastising.

“Nobody's plotting against anyone,” said the Shadow girl.  “You've just spent too long around terrible people to see the decency in others.”

“And you're a paragon of trust and virtue?”

“Pikes, no.  But I'm also not blinded by jealousy.”

“I'm not—“  Dasira shut her mouth before she could start shouting.  Cob and Fiora were still in earshot.  “I don't want to talk about this.  How about we discuss your crush on Arik?”

Lark snorted.  “If I had a crush on anyone, it'd be on—“  She stopped herself, but not before Dasira caught her telltale glance at Ilshenrir.

“What is a crush?” said the wraith.

“Nothing!  It's nothing!”

“It means she finds a certain physical shell appealing, and—“

Two long arms latched around her, and it took a suppression of instinct to keep her hand off Serindas.  Instead she let Lark lean on her heavily, the girl hissing with indignation, and released her own tension in a laugh against the gloved hand.

“Don't you listen to anything she says!” exclaimed Lark.  “She's full of—  She's wrong!”

The wraith watched them with clear bafflement.

Dasira pushed away her muzzling hand, still smiling.  It felt strange to allow anyone such liberties, but as Ilshenrir had said, they were friends.  She didn't know how it had happened, but it felt real.  “All right, if you can't admit it, I won't expose you further, as long as you keep your slander to yourself.”

“My lips are sealed, you horrible woman.”

“I am still unsure what you meant,” said Ilshenrir.

In response, Lark slipped between him and Dasira and took him by the rough-garbed arm, beaming forcedly.  “Why don't you teach me some more magic?  You said Cob said I should learn, and I don't see a problem with it, so...”

The wraith blinked.  “While we walk?  Let me think...”

Dasira dropped back, smirking in response to Lark's glare.  As the arcane chatter began, she let her gaze drift across their surroundings, skipping from mountains to salt-pans to any outcropping or lump or curve in the sand that might indicate lurking wildlife.

Finally, she turned her gaze northwest toward Crystal Valley.  As a child, she had wanted to seek it because it presented the greatest challenge to any Riddish warrior: a rite of passage; a trial of strength and endurance; a journey to the boundary between life and death, between bravery and foolhardiness.  All in the service of becoming a man.

In a way, she supposed she had gotten her wish.

*****

They made camp that evening among half-buried ruins, circling a pile of glowing stones that Ilshenrir and Lark had infused with enough heat to serve as a cook-fire.  They kept it going with Lark's magic-practice, the light just sufficient to define their faces against the black curtain of the night.

“You make it look easy,” said Fiora as she dipped water from the simmering pot.  Dasira observed by habit; everyone else already had their cups, though Ilshenrir seemed disinterested in the charade tonight.  His eyes, slightly luminous, stayed on Lark's hands at all times.

“It is,” he said as the Shadow girl gripped a new stone and furrowed her brows in concentration.  “Energy exists around us at all times, from sources biological, meteorological, celestial and tectonic.  We draw upon it with every motion.  In the higher realms, it is free to be spun at will; here in the depths, great sections have solidified and are inaccessible to my kind.  Still, we find sufficient ambient energy for our purposes.”

“Yes, but I always thought it required a lot of...finger-wiggling,” said Fiora, setting back in her spot.  From her rucksack, she pulled a small pouch and tapped dried leaves into the mug, then added from the tin of tea.  “You know, books and incantations and whatever else they teach at the Citadel.”

Ilshenrir smiled faintly, still watching the stone.  “I have not been to the Citadel, but it is...a school, yes?  I imagine that it has adapted certain routines to keep the students from harming themselves.  Even we caiohene can mishandle energies and be damaged; it must be far more dangerous for mortals.  Finger-wiggling, as you say, may be a method of focus.”

“So you can just do it all with your mind?”

“Certainly, though some effects are made easier by the...manipulation of the aperture.”  He raised his gloved hand, then curled the fingers down to one.  “I gather energy into myself and project it through my facets.  It is more focused if I narrow it.  Additionally, if I am weaving, I can create separate strands via the divisions of flesh.”  He opened his hand and made a slight, elegant gesture that drew colors in the air, a different one from each fingertip.

“But...so the finger-wiggling
is
important?” said Fiora, frowning.

“It has its uses.  But there are no 'spells'.  Energy can be set to any purpose, limited only by the will of its wielder.  Likewise, the only foci are those set by the wielder.”

“I think this one is done,” murmured Lark, lifting her glowing stone.

The wraith took it gently.  Though it glowed as if molten, her palms were undamaged and his glove did not singe, and as he set it onto the pile, it dimmed slightly while the ones around it brightened.  Selecting an unused stone from a second pile, he set it in her hands and she grimaced but focused.

“So what're you doin'?” said Cob, his first sign of interest since they'd made camp.

“A simple method of practice.  She absorbs ambient energy through her breath, through her skin, then channels it from her core into her limbs, from whence it enters the stone.  It is how I cleared myself of the crystallization that afflicts my kind, which is as much a stagnation of energy as it is a physical ailment.  In humans, it is a taxing effort, but it teaches the sensation of the flow—an essential part of energy-handing.”

Cob nodded slowly.  “Like handlin' water.  Well-behaved if you work it right.”

“Yes.  Energy does not want to hurt you.  It does not care about you at all.  It simply wishes to transfer from a point of higher concentration to one of lower.  As a mage, one must learn to let that happen before one can manipulate the parameters.”

“But you can't do it if you're a godfollower, right?” said Fiora.  “Because of the god-connection.  And you can't do it if you're a skinchanger, because of the spirit?”

“Yes.  Skinchangers are localized segments of their singular beast-spirit.  If the beast-spirit disdains the practice of magic, then no skinchanger can attempt it.  Likewise for the elementals, I believe.”

“Then how come Enkhaelen can do magic?  Shouldn't the Ravager be able to stop him?”

“In theory, yes.  From my observations of Cob and the Guardian, it should be capable of overriding him as necessary—will, soul and all.  However, having experienced his assault at the manor...”  Ilshenrir tapped his marred cheek, inhuman eyes shifting slightly in thought.  “It was more like a subjugation than a spirit's attack.  Perhaps the Ravager has devoured so many of us that it has become somewhat caiohene itself.”

Cob shook his head.  “I saw a fragment of it in the manor, and there was nothin' caiohene about it.  No crystals, jus' wings and claws and teeth.  Same when it manifested on him.”

“Did he use magic while in its manifestation?”

“No, he jus' went for my face in a frenzy.  So maybe it does suppress magic, it jus' doesn't suppress him?”

“And he's using it, not vice versa?” said Fiora.  “That explains why it wants him dead.”

“The Guardian says elemental-bloods get stuck in its craw.  So yeah, he's got control and he won't die, and he's usin' whatever wraith-magic it knows for his own purposes.”

“If only we knew someone who was familiar with him,” said Fiora, then stared pointedly at Dasira.

Annoyed, Dasira held up her free hand.  Until now, she had been content to stay quiet and watch the salt-plains as much as her companions.  She did not consider herself nostalgic, but the old harsh scent of it made it hard not to recall her first life.  “I've never been privy to his mage-stuff.  Nor did I care.  But if you start thinking you understand him, you've probably been tricked.”

“He never told you anything?”

She snorted derisively.

Frowning, Fiora sat forward, the stone-light accenting her stubborn jaw.  “If you dislike him so much, why did you work for him?  He obviously didn't bind you all that tight.”

“Nothing better to do.”

“What about your family?  Your home?”

A brittle laugh left her lips before she could stop it.  Suddenly all eyes were on her, and she scowled, wanting to play it off as nothing but unable to keep the words inside.  “Why would I go back to them?  They were the ones who sent me.”

The girl blinked.  Beside her, Cob's face tightened.  “What do you mean, sent you?” said Fiora.  “To be converted?”

“No.  Look, it's not relevant.  I don't know anything useful about him.”

“Tell me,” said Cob, and in his low voice she felt a force, a compulsion.  She looked away, not wanting to be pinned by those dark eyes and all too aware that she had never told him much about herself—and nearly nothing of her life before Darilan.

He never asked
, she thought. 
Why bother now?

“Are you ashamed?” said Fiora.

It was like being prodded with a hot iron.  Dasira sat up straight and glared at the girl.  “You want another punch in the teeth?”