The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 17

  “Then be a non-asshole version of you.”

  “Ha! No such thing.”

  “Look, d'you want tea or somethin'?”

  With an aggravated sound, Enkhaelen tried to wedge himself up. After a moment, Cob helped. “Hate tea,” the necromancer muttered, “stupid dirty water. Alcohol?”

  “Not here.”

  “Oil?”

  “Sure you wanna start drinkin' the supply already?”

  “You're not my nanny.”

  If only that were so. “Can get you a coal from the fire.”

  “No, no. If I'm covered in soot, they'll recognize me.”

  “We're gonna tell them anyway. Right?”

  Enkhaelen glowered at him, then around the room, then at the curtained archway. No one arrived to be the focus of his ire, so after a long uncomfortable moment, he exhaled. “I suppose.”

  To resist the urge to shake him, Cob sat down next to him instead. Arik fell into a crouch at their feet, ears cocked, tail peeking out from under his cloak. Semi-upright and in decent lighting, Enkhaelen looked wretched, his complexion underlain by pallor and his eyelids heavy, clothes hanging loosely on his wasted frame.

  “I don't want to do this,” he murmured, gaze fixed on nothing.

  “Sooner y'do it—“

  “Finish that and I'll punch you.”

  Cob fell silent. They sat like that, Enkhaelen twisting a handful of tunic nervously, until the sound of heavy boots outside told them more were approaching than the expected priestess.

  Enkhaelen's hands went still, his eyes narrowing to slits. Risking it, Cob touched his shoulder in warning, and received a glare in response.

  The curtain parted to admit six women, two masked and two robed and two moderately armored. Cob recognized the priestess who'd brought them here, and thought he knew the armored women; the taller one, grey-haired and grim, might be the Forge Matron he'd met before—Sister Talla—and the harsh-faced one in the red tabard might be the Sword Sister.

  The new priestess was middle-aged, plump and pleasant in her dress-like brown robe, her long hair coiled back in a braided bun. A few small bronze pins accented her bodice and sleeves, but otherwise she showed no accessories, and no bells like Aglavyn.

  “Young Cob,” she said warmly, leading the group in. “You look well. I doubt you remember me; I'm Mother Varya, acting Matriarch. I've been told that our Sister Fiora has gone astray from your company?”

  “Yeah, she—“

  Then one of the masked women rushed them. Too slow, Cob tried to rise, to interpose himself in her way, but her gauntleted hands reached past him to clamp on Enkhaelen's neck.

  “Adeela!” the Mother Matriarch cried, but the masked woman didn't listen, nor react to Cob grappling at her arms. Unimpeded by his efforts, she hoisted Enkhaelen by the neck, turned, and flung him bodily across the room, where he struck a table then tumbled off the far side.

  The other masked woman made a beeline for him, fists raised to strike.

  Cob tried to yank the first one around to keep her from pursuing, but she moved as if his weight was negligible. As her head turned to track Enkhaelen, he let go with one hand and punched her behind the mask—only to recoil, cursing, as his knuckles cracked against the hard material of her jaw.

  It wasn't flesh. From up close, it looked like painted ceramic.

  And he remembered suddenly what he'd seen here before: the catacombs. The cubbied walls filled with plaques to dead Trifolders, and Fiora's explanation that what filled them weren't corpses, but effigies made from the ashes of the fallen, ready to be possessed by their souls.

  Those walls had been vacated and deconstructed, their occupants let loose.

  “Adeela, Tamyan, stop!” commanded the priestess, but neither listened. The two human Sisters were going after the second effigy, which had bent over where Enkhaelen had tumbled; Cob couldn't see him, just saw a heavy fist rise and fall. The one he was grappling ignored him, striding forward as if dragging a toddler—until Arik's grey blur slammed into its back.

  It swayed, sticking out its other arm for balance, and Cob planted his feet and hauled it by the side and shoulder. One of its legs unhinged, dropping it to a knee. The wolfman leapt upon its back, trying to drag it down, but as its hand connected with the ground it seemed to stabilize and heaved upright despite his weight.

  Cob tried to kick its feet out from under it, but the impact went straight up his leg like kicking a wall. It broad-armed him away with enough force to knock him to the couch. As he lurched up, he saw the silver sword on the floor where Arik had dropped it.

  Don't, said all good sense. You can't afford to alienate the Trifolders.

  But he couldn't let it kill Enkhaelen. None of them could afford that.

  So he grabbed up the sword and turned to pursue the effigy, trying to spot a place to strike past Arik's cloaked bulk. A knee maybe; if it was really a possessed statue-thing, hitting it in the head wouldn't be of much use.

  A sudden burst of blue light went through the room, flinging aside bodies but not furniture. Plate and mail clashed loudly as they hit the floor, startled voices cursing, and the younger priestess shrieked. Cob winced—he knew that color and the way Enkhaelen used it—but he was focused on his enemy, seeking a weakness. He couldn't look.

  Then the blue light lanced to his foe as well, crawling across its armored surface like lightning. Arik yawped and dropped from it. The light coalesced into bands which narrowed and shifted until they slid through gaps in its armor; the effigy jerked vigorously for a moment then went still.

  In the ensuing pause, Enkhaelen slurred, “Attacking a necromancer with dead people. So smart.”

  Cob lowered the sword, aware that striking now would break the spell. He felt more than a little useless.

  “And you are a necromancer?” said the Mother Matriarch, stepping forth with admirable poise as the Sisters struggled to their feet. They'd been flung off, from what Cob could tell, and the other effigy now stood as motionless as the first.

  Enkhaelen peeked over the table but didn't rise. Blood drooled from his nose and mouth and spotted the effigy's fist; one eye was swelling shut. “Clearly I am,” he said, showing reddened teeth. “And clearly these ones recognize me. I can hear them; I'm guessing you can't, else you wouldn't be asking stupid questions.”

  “Watch your tongue,” snapped the hard-featured younger Sister, and took a step toward him.

  A gesture from the Mother Matriarch halted her. Face tight, dark eyes keen, the priestess regarded Enkhaelen for a long moment, then said, “You are the one we were called to aid?”

  “Over my objections.”

  “Then explain. Who are you, and why would the honored dead recognize you?”

  “I'm fairly sure I killed them.”

  Cob's stomach sank. Of course they would be his victims; Cantorin was pinned like a brooch to the throat of the Imperial Road, blocking the way to Wyndon and the west. The landscape hadn't changed much in four hundred years; he would have been forced to pass through here in his pursuit of his daughter's phantom.

  No wonder this side of the city was ruined.

  “You,” said the priestess slowly. “You claim to be him? The Child by Fire?”

  “Oh, pike your prophecy. Call me by name. Shaidaxi Enkhaelen, not at your service.”

  The younger Sister snarled and drew her sword; the elder set a hand on her hammer's haft. From beyond the curtain came the sound of running steps: temple guards alerted by the clamor.

  For a moment, standing there, Cob considered just letting it happen. There was no way he could fight through guards, priestesses—allies. No way to help without wrecking Enkhaelen's spells, and no desire to kill someone for that man.

  But he was responsible.

  “Hoi!” he barked as the younger Sister started forward. “Don't you touch him. We came here in good faith—him too—and you attacked us without provocation. Is that how you welcome people to your hearth?”

  The Sister round
ed on him, eyes blazing, but the Mother Matriarch held out a hand. Her attention fell to the sword before seeking his face, her brows drawn down in disapproval. “It is not,” she said coolly, “but nor do we welcome those who would harm our kin or those in our care. You have entered under false pretenses, Cob.”

  Cob winced. “I'm sorry for that, but I didn't wanna speak for him. I see now I should've. We're here on a mission to undo the damage he's done, and he has t'be alive for it, and whole. It's penance. Surely you understand that.”

  From the table, Enkhaelen gave him a dirty look. He ignored it. The Mother Matriarch's expression had smoothed, a certain measuring light in her gaze; as a new group of Sisters crowded in through the archway, her gesture restrained them. “I understand that you were—are?—a follower of the Imperial Light, with its perverse idea of penance. I understand that he is a mass murderer and a persecutor of our faith, an eater of souls. I also see that he has not acted beyond his own defense at this time, nor have you. What is it that you want?”

  Enkhaelen grudgingly answered. “Healing. Rejuvenation. If I could have done it without bothering you, believe me, I would have, but I'm under threat and too weak to fix myself. I neglected this body too long. I don't ask this for myself, but for the many who would die if I do.”

  “Who, your minions? Your monsters?” snapped the younger Sister. “Mother, we have to kill him. This boy meant to do so but he's obviously been corrupted, and he lost one of my Swords. Who knows what happened to her? We should not have let him in.”

  “I'm not corrupted,” Cob snapped back. “I learned things and changed my mind. He's not the enemy—not now—and I've seen for myself what'll happen if he dies. If you won't help, then we'll jus' go on our own, but we'd appreciate if—“

  “The Long Darkness,” the Forge Matron interjected. “Did he bring it back?”

  All eyes fixed on Cob: evaluating, expectant, angry. Sweat broke out on his brow. It would be easy to blame it on Enkhaelen, but...

  “No,” he said. “I did.”

  Silence hung heavy for a moment. Then the Mother Matriarch said, “Why?”

  He looked from them to Enkhaelen, but found no support there; the necromancer's face was stiff, expressionless. “I didn't know it would happen,” he said. “The Emperor and the Light were the same thing, but they were also the Outsider, which got locked out long ago. Enkhaelen made a portal to let it back in, but it was small, and I shut it. And now the sun won't rise.”

  The crowd murmured in confusion and suspicion. He couldn't blame them. “Look, neither of us understand what happened. The sun's the sun, right? It was here long before the Outsider got in, and the Seals didn't change that. I don't know why closin' them again would do this. We're tryin' to put them back securely, and maybe that'll fix somethin'. I hope it will. Killin' him won't help.”

  “Who would it harm?” said the Mother Matriarch.

  “Lots. The Seals caused disasters when they were first set. Lettin' them spring back to their spots could do the same. A Riftquake, an eruption, sea waves… We don't want that. Puttin' them back gently might cause some damage but it won't be as bad.”

  She considered him flintily, then looked to Enkhaelen, who had propped himself into a sitting position with the help of the table and was now hunched over it, still dripping blood. “You have pledged to this action?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will cause no harm for its duration?”

  “Except when harm comes to me,” he slurred, and made a show of wiping his face. It didn't help, just made a bigger smear.

  Her lips curled in distaste, but after a moment she made a quelling gesture at the younger Sister. “Stow your weapon. Enkhaelen, release our ancients.”

  “Only if you can keep them from hitting me.”

  “I can.” She stepped forward, face pinched but determined, and set her hand on the back of the one looming over the necromancer. A faint haze rippled the air around it, then was gone; she moved to the one by Cob and did the same. “Done.”

  With clear reluctance, Enkhaelen flicked his fingers as if shaking off water, and the effigies twitched back to autonomy. One raised a hand toward its mask as if headachey; the other retreated to the door, stance stiff, and ducked out once the crowd had parted.

  “Sisters, bring him,” said the priestess, and the armored women stepped toward Enkhaelen with hard faces. He snarled redly.

  “Leave him to me,” Cob said, cutting past the lingering effigy to try to head them off. “It's best you only touch him when necessary.”

  “Very well. Sisters, with me.” Turning about, the Mother Matriarch shooed the rest of the crowd from the doorway then strode through, the armored women hastening to follow. Cob gave Arik a glance to find the wolfman already circling the table from the other way, and together they hoisted Enkhaelen upright. He scrabbled at their arms a moment, then gripped their shoulders, leaving bloody prints all over.

  “Y'all right?” said Cob as they half-supported, half-carried him after.

  “Broken nose,” he mumbled. “Gashed my cheek on my teeth. Small fractures in my eye-socket, nasal bridge. At least she hit above the jaw.”

  “'Cause Light forbid you ever stop talkin'.”

  Enkhaelen made a burbling sound that might have been a chuckle.

  More Trifolders fell in at their heels, mostly women in armor but a few men as well. No other effigies, though they passed several standing in archways, bronze masks blankly hostile. Cob noted priestess-effigies behind the warrior-types, in the same brown dresses as the living ones plus bead-edged head-scarves; though their masks were painted like smiling dolls, their miens were just as unfriendly.

  Through halls, around corners—deeper and deeper into the extensive complex, far beyond what Cob had seen before. Down stairs as well, where votive candles gave way to the strange orange globes he'd seen in Shadow Folk territory. Dust lay thick in the corners, the side-rooms cold and empty.

  Finally, at the end of a corridor, they entered a large chamber that reminded Cob of where the temple leaders had once tried to break his bonds—except this was barren. The floor was scarred stone, the walls blank, and the altar atop the far dais looked like it had sat there for thousands of years. Veined white marble, it bore darker grooves on the sides and across the top, not dirty but stained by something in the past.

  “Sacrifices?” slurred Enkhaelen. “I didn't think you had it in you.”

  “Bloodletting,” said the priestess tightly, gesturing toward the altar. “We don't like to do it, and will not sully our true altar with it. But your circumstance requires it. You know we cannot heal without an injury.”

  “My face isn't enough?”

  She didn't dignify that with a response, just gestured to the altar. Cob looked down at Enkhaelen, unsure, but though the necromancer appeared annoyed, he nodded his consent. With care, Cob and Arik hoisted him onto the stone slab.

  “Needles,” she said as she took her place beside the altar, and a junior priestess approached with a wooden case. Inside were small tools not much different from Enkhaelen's, but mostly bronze: long thin knives, probes, hooks and saws, plus rows and rows of fine needles.

  As she selected one, the Mother Matriarch glanced to Cob and said, “You needn't watch. Our brothers and sisters can escort you back to a more comfortable locale.”

  “Don't think I should leave,” said Cob, though Enkhaelen was already staring at the ceiling as if nothing else existed.

  “As you wish. Marran, set his nose, please.” Another junior priestess moved to obey, and the Mother Matriarch pushed up Enkhaelen's swaddling layers to examine one bony ankle, then palpate the shin, then the knee. “Hm. This is troublesome. How far does the atrophy extend?”

  “Base of the spine,” Enkhaelen mumbled.

  “And these marks?”

  Cob squinted, curious, and saw several dark dots at the back of the necromancer's knee and heel. Enkhaelen sighed. “Venipuncture. Have them everywhere. Don't mind it.”

/>   “Veni—“

  “Vein insertions. Gods forbid I speak to you like a professional.”

  “Insertions of what?”

  Enkhaelen was silent for a moment, jaw working. Then he said, “Palace threads. To keep me alive.”

  A shiver ran up Cob's spine. He remembered Enkhaelen tangled in that cocoon of Palace material, half off the Throne and reaching desperately for Geraad's knife. After four centuries in that place, Cob supposed he'd seek death too.

  The Mother Matriarch pursed her lips, but said, “This will take some time, and it will hurt. I will insert needles into your leg muscles and leave them there while I heal you, so that my Goddess's energies are constantly—“

  “I know how it works,” Enkhaelen growled. “Just do it.”

  Her face twitched, but to her credit, she applied the first needle with a light hand.

  Cob turned away as more went in. As calmly as Enkhaelen took it, he couldn't watch. Arik looked equally uneasy, and beyond him the Trifolders stood grim-faced in the orange light, a good two dozen of them arrayed along the walls as if waiting for Enkhaelen to attack. Junior priestesses lingered closer, awaiting orders. A new one came through the crowd with a mirrored lantern and took up a position at the Mother Matriarch's shoulder; another brought a pitcher of water and a bowl.

  For a while, they worked their craft in silence. Then there was a time of soft singing, of comforting warmth and radiance, and an unsteady teakettle hiss that might have been Enkhaelen in pain. Cob didn't look. Afterward, needles clinked as they were dropped on a tray, then cloth rustled.

  “Turn him over,” said the Mother Matriarch. “Cob, this part will take longer. Please go rest. He will not come to harm.”

  Cob glanced back just enough to see the junior priestesses helping Enkhaelen turn. The necromancer gave him a rueful look; his face had been washed, the swelling gone from his eye, and his short hooked nose looked straight again.

  “Go on,” he said. “It's fine. Maybe they'll let you use the bath.”

  Cob resisted the urge to sniff himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a wash, and between swamp and blood and vigorous exertion he knew he probably smelled awful.