The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 13

  A mumble, then a heavy tread: the Field Marshal shuffling for the door. Sensing an opening, Vesha wrenched himself upright, then leapt from the overhang to wing across the roof. The gathering of White Flames and wraiths that stood guard barely noticed him as he wheeled a circle overhead. Then the door opened.

  Turning tightly, wings tucked, he aimed his malleable black body at the Field Marshal's face. The smallest claw-hold at lips or nostrils would let him invade, suffocate, claw his way down the monster's throat and chew out his heart from the inside—

  White armor swarmed up to deny him access. Unable to veer, he struck hard and went for the eyes instead, but his claws snagged on the bandage. A fever-hot hand tore him away, taking the cloth with it.

  A vermillion sphere glared out at him from the center of the gory socket, half-wrapped in white material that approximated sclera. The furrows his claws had cut in Rackmar's flesh had been filled in by more white stuff; even the hand that held him, the one he'd chewed apart, was now made from those same horrid threads. As Rackmar's grip tightened, he felt them pierce into him like burning needles, and the red eye pulsed brighter like a cinder being blown to life.

  He convulsed as the fire sank in, feeling it peel away his layers in rolling waves. The pain went on long after his other senses turned to ash—so long that he didn't realize, initially, that he was feeling it with his body again. He tried to open his eyes but only one responded, and when he moved his head, the entire world reeled.

  His stomach upended itself and he retched black bile into the dirt, over and over until he thought he'd bring up his guts. Dimly he heard sounds from above—voices, footfalls on the steps—and knew he was discovered, but couldn't move. Every muscle was locked, each organ straining in its own torment, and a flush of feathers ran across his back: his constituent pieces ready to fly apart again.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, he cursed himself. Can't fight him. Couldn't ever fight him.

  A lantern shot its beam under the steps, making him flinch. Voices rose out there, and metal clattered; boots scuffed off to either side, seeking his tunnel's entrance.

  A pike slotted through the gap between two steps and nailed his right hand to the dirt.

  He screamed—he couldn't help it—and wrenched back, hand splitting around the pike-head. His fingers burst into feathers. There was no choice now; he couldn't fight, couldn't escape as a whole. Disintegration terrified him, but not as much as death.

  The seams burst. Feathers cut their way free of convulsing flesh, turning it inside-out and stitching it up as discrete little parcels. In twos and threes, they fled the shelter, leaping out through the gaps in the steps and scuttling from the hidden exit, and though a few were swatted down by startled soldiers, most escaped. The last lot, having fought free of sleeves and trouser-legs, burst from the exit en masse, battering the enemy away as they took to the sky.

  They carried nothing with them, the carefully gathered clothing now deflated in the hole, the blades stuck in their sheaths. But it was better than dying, and as the cloud of crows gathered and wheeled against the red-tinged dome, they felt stronger than they had as a man.

  Until an energy-bolt streaked up at them. Screeching, they scattered, sentience wavering with distance. They knew enough to hide from danger, and to search for a new shelter where they could recombine, but when they were apart it was difficult to remember why.

  As a flock, they were Vesha. Alone, they were simply cancerous crows.

  *****

  Ammala Cray retreated from the cell door, back to her straw-packed cushion and the company of her fellow prisoners. Though there was a cot, it was mutually agreed to belong to the eldest woman—the former Empress, who lay empty-eyed upon it, occasionally mewling in distress. With no other garments provided, they hadn't stripped her of her gown, but Ammala had still seen the marks on her arms and spine and along the backs of her legs: the places where the Palace's threads had once pierced her veins. To keep her alive, Lady Annia had said, since she couldn't care for herself.

  Death would have been kinder.

  Now she was certainly dying, and there was nothing Ammala or the Lady could do about it. To her credit, the Lady tried; she dried her eyes whenever the Empress stirred, and went to her side to soothe and coo and try to get her to drink some water. Sometimes she succeeded. More often the Empress choked and ended up spitting the water everywhere, then wailed and screeched until Ammala could have pressed the cushion over her face and been done with it.

  But she refrained. Lady Annia spent nearly all her time grasping that withered hand now, talking one-sidedly about brighter days, and she wouldn't rob the woman of her farewell. She'd gone through much the same when her husband Gefron caught the pale fever.

  "Who was it?" said Lady Annia softly, looking up from her own cushion. Her illusion pendant had been taken, letting the sorrow and deprivation show on her hive-eyed golden features.

  “That wraith-lord again. I can see him through his fake skin. And the Field Marshal, I think.”

  “What were they talking about?”

  "The Scion of the Light. The future." Settling down, Ammala tucked her feet under the edges of her white robe. She didn't like to see them, with their rear claw and fused toes. Didn't like looking at her hands either. "Your prince is still incoherent."

  Lady Annia grimaced. It had been like this since the Prince's first interrogation: long silences broken by shrieks or strange musical noises or garbled attempts at speech. Sometimes he would rage and strike at the walls of his cell, making the wards ripple and summoning mages to subdue him.

  "They were contemplating killing him," she added.

  "No, they can't do that!" exclaimed the Lady, looking at her as if she could somehow prevent it. Not for the first time, Ammala contemplated slapping her. She was a sheltered thing, and had obviously been kept in the dark about whatever insane machinations had brought them here, but it was frustrating to suddenly be called on to mother someone older than her.

  "It seems they don't plan to. Not yet. Something about hosting the Light." She hated to talk about it—had considered it just an Imperial delusion until she'd faced it in the Palace and been driven to her knees like all the others. When it vanished, it had felt like a great hand trying to tear her heart from her chest.

  Few of the collapsed converts had gotten back up. She had been the first in her area. She didn't know whether it was because she'd resisted that pull, or from some vestige of the Trifold Goddess's favor, or due to her type, lagalaina; after all, Lady Annia had survived too. Whatever the reason, they had returned to tending the Empress in the hope that they could find help for her.

  Instead, they had ended up here.

  She didn't know what the Field Marshal planned for them, but she doubted it was good. Even had he not locked them up, she would have resisted any of his orders; he had brought her family to ruin, and she would make him suffer. Somehow.

  For now, though, she let Lady Annia grasp her hand for strength, and listened in silence to old stories of the Heartlands and the Imperial Court. Wolves and snakes and eagles whirled in her head, the totem beasts of clans once too far away to care about—now intruding here beneath their blind-white banner, inflicting their madness upon people who had never wished them harm.

  Monsters, all.

  *****

  Mariss's work was nearly done: the twin portal-remnants strengthened, harnessed, tugged toward synchronization. She felt a particular resonance within one of them, and knew in her gut that it was her father's energy—his signature, which had been branded upon her at her creation and now hummed with recognition.

  As much as she hated it, she had to acknowledge that it helped, for his portal-remnant was tattered almost beyond repair. The haelhene hadn't been able to touch it without causing more damage—but she had coaxed it, infused it, and now pulled it slowly to mesh with the other. They had a common anchor; together, they would open the way.

  She could feel the destination across a bend of sp
ace: a dim sense of an interior, darkened, with several life-forces. It wasn't sight, nor was it tactile enough for touch—just an awareness she sipped from the portal, tasting the energies on the other side.

  A few more stitches and it would be whole. Powering it would take bare moments, and then...

  And then...

  Her hands stilled. One of those life-forces was him—had to be—and suddenly what had been an abstract endeavor became very, very real. A lump formed in her throat. She hadn't expected this so soon, hadn't thought of what she'd say, or shout, or if she'd let him speak before she struck him down. She wasn't ready—

  Something shifted and the stitches strained. Shaking herself from her freeze, she tried to pull the strands together but felt a fracture in the weave. Not on her side, but at the terminus, as if it was moving—rising...

  The connection sheared apart and was gone.

  Automatically she relaxed herself for the backlash, knowing she couldn't drop the strands in time. The severed portals lit up before her, then shattered, fragments streaming through the gaps in her stitchwork to dissolve in the cold air. The parts she'd bound tightly were sucked into the strands, surging their energies up her arms to the metal web within her shoulders and back. She let it happen, aware that if she resisted, the power would clot at certain points and overload. The key was to guide the flow, manage it, ease it—and then release it back into the world.

  She exhaled static, her silver nails racing with sparks, her hair dancing in its metal net. Bit by bit, the backlash escaped, until her nerves quieted from their panicked hum and her teeth ceased to ache.

  Then she let her hands fall, trying to swallow down that lump of disappointment. She'd hesitated, and he'd detected her. He knew she was after him.

  What would he do? Where would he go?

  Why had he run? Surely he'd want to face her as much as she needed to confront him.

  Had he not recognized her…?

  "Mariss," said her master behind her, and she twitched. She hadn't sensed his arrival. Forcing her hair to smooth itself, she turned slowly, affecting a scowl of displeasure.

  "He was ready for us," she lied. "He's broken the connection—I don't know how, I just feel that the anchor is gone. I was close, though. He was there."

  Master Caernahon's expression showed little, and his voice was bland. "A shame. But we know his goal. We will await him at the Seals."

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak further. 'We' meant she was still involved, though he must have seen her mistake; who knew how long he'd been standing there?

  I am prepared, she told herself. I will not hesitate again.

  She couldn't afford to fail.

  Chapter 5 – View from a Realm

  Hand raised, Cob squinted through the gaps between his fingers. The light was too bright for him to look at directly; even like this, it sent needles of agony into his skull, and the flesh of his palm tightened in response to the heat. Soon it would burn.

  "We have to keep going," said his companion. Glancing sidelong, he tried to make the figure out, but there was too much glare to see details. Short, fair-haired, with a hand raised as well...but was it a man? A woman? He couldn't identify the voice, though he knew it.

  His companion took a step forward and he caught a whiff of smoke. Another, and a dark veil wafted up from the raised arm, crackling with flame at the edges. Another.

  No! he tried to shout, but the words wouldn't come out. Desperate, he pursued, but the heat made a wall in front of him, draining every attempt at motion. Pain blossomed in his palm, and the reek of burning meat hit him from up close, filling his nostrils and throat until—

  Something crashed down nearby, snapping him awake. For a moment he just stared at the basalt ceiling, trying to remember where he was, then raised his head to track the sound of cursing.

  The wisp-light and all the candles had gone out. In their place, a portal-frame cast the only radiance, fine shimmering strands stitching across its surface as it attempted to activate. A dark silhouette crawled toward it, trailing imprecations and tools from the shroud it had yanked off the desk.

  "Enkhaelen?" said Cob, alarmed. At his side, he could just see Arik hunched in place, ears up but tail tucked anxiously. Throwing his blanket off, he heaved to his feet to pursue the necromancer.

  "Stop," rasped Enkhaelen before he'd taken more than a step. "Stay back, this is— Don't interfere." With another awkward heave of his arms, he drew himself close enough to the portal-frame, then pushed into a sitting position. A haul on the shroud brought some unknown tool into reach, which he grabbed and immediately jammed into the side of the frame.

  The half-coalesced weave shuddered like a soap-bubble, strands fraying. With a grunt of effort, the necromancer wrenched at the tool, and Cob heard a crack, then a spang as something metallic popped off and hit a wall.

  "Take me to the door," the necromancer snarled, turning as much as he could on his unusable legs. Cob thought to point out that Enkhaelen had just ordered him to stay back, but the portal-weave was in wild flux, its strands tangling and smoothing in no clear pattern.

  And Enkhaelen hadn't triggered it. That meant...

  He moved to the man's side, caught him under the arms and hauled him up, light as a bird. Enkhaelen hung in his grip without comment as Arik made a gap in the blockade of chests and crates, then said, “Middle of the entry.”

  Cob set him down there and stepped back, frowning. Past his kneeling form, night remained absolute, the blue wards on the ruined town barely visible, nothing but starlight on snow to illuminate the view.

  Enkhaelen clamped both hands onto the door-sill and hunched, head down, spine straining as if he was trying to pull the stone up. Cob opened his mouth to ask—what? why?—but in that moment, a white seam ran across the necromancer's back, then split into a six-rayed star that broadened until it covered him from shoulders to hips.

  Wings thrust out from that whiteness, forcing Cob back and battering against the nearby crates as they unfurled into the chamber. There were three sets: broad, bold eagle-wings at the top; thick downy owl-like ones at the middle; and a short nearly-skeletized pair protruding from the small of his back. A burning seal marked the midpoint of each wing: grey and green for the eagle, brown and blue for the owl, bright orange on the lower right. Only the left skeletal wing was unbranded.

  He'd seen them before—at Riftward, at the manor, in the Guardian's memories and the Palace—but those had been flash-manifestations at best. These were solid and massive, scraping the ceiling and brushing the far wall as they flexed to their full span. A scent like lightning accompanied them, dizzying in its intensity, and the whole chamber crackled with sparks.

  Except for where the silver sword lay. The skeletal wings nearly brushed it; grimacing, Cob ducked low and reached his foot out just enough to kick it backward, away from contact. A desiccated feather brushed his leg in the process, causing a shock that rattled his teeth.

  As he sprawled away, tasting copper and ozone, he saw the wings arch. Enkhaelen was invisible beyond their mass, the doorway filled with feathers, but nothing could block out what came next: a shriek that pierced his skull like a shard of glass, rising in volume and pitch until all he could do was clamp his arms around his head and curl in a ball. The chamber shook, lurched, seemed to lift as if even the earth had rejected that horrifying noise, and then—

  Something integral fractured. He felt it in his bones: an agonizing dislocation from their point of origin, a sudden drift. An unmooring.

  Slowly the Ravager's cry faded, and with it the pain. The wings tucked in, fading as they drew closer to their host's body until they were just an opalescent shimmer around the bundle of fire and feathers and Seals that was Enkhaelen, slumped against the door-frame. Cob rose slowly, alarmed by his state—then halted, amazed.

  Beyond him, the world had changed.

  They were still on the small plateau beneath the cliff, but the ruins had vanished. In their place rose a tangle
of trees, wild growth, and whole but ghostly buildings, as if past and present had somehow merged. Patches of snow coexisted with flowering boughs; shades of wolves, beastfolk and humans moved slowly through the overgrown streets. An odd glow hung over it all, bruise-violet like storm-light. Peering out, Cob saw no sky, just a vast expanse of rippled cloud and a deepening intensity of color above the cliff, at the manor.

  "Don't go out there," Enkhaelen rasped, flailing a flame-tipped hand at him weakly. He caught the necromancer's arm with trepidation, but it didn't burn, and when he hauled him upright, he saw what kept the fire in check: hundreds if not thousands of tiny rune-etched bands that covered his surface like he'd been wrapped in ribbons. He opened his mouth to ask, then winced as short claws bit through his tunic, Enkhaelen trying to use him as leverage to stand straight.

  "Stop strugglin'," he muttered. "You need help, so jus' let me help, all right?"

  "I don't—"

  "You want me to drop you?"

  He saw Enkhaelen's jaw clench beneath the bands, felt a furious tension run through the man. But his blue-fire gaze stayed fixed ahead, perhaps measuring obstinacy against progress, and finally he growled, "I won't thank you."

  "Don't expect it. Don't particularly want it. Helpin' anyway."

  "You are the most grudging person I've ever met."

  "'M sure that's sayin' a lot." With minimal effort, Cob hauled the necromancer back to his little nest of cushions and blankets. The weird violet light tinged their chamber, making it easy to see the mess of tools and supplies that Enkhaelen had yanked off the desk. Many carried strange glows of their own now, their enchantments made visible; once Enkhaelen had settled, Cob started picking them up.

  "What, no questions?" said Enkhaelen waspishly.

  Cob ignored him. Frankly he wished he wouldn't talk. Now that the shock of waking, the Ravager manifestation and the change in realm was wearing off, a ghost of his dream returned to him. A harsh light, a friend burning...