The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 18

  “Yeah, um...can I?” he said, looking to the priestess who'd met them at the stairs. She dimpled at him and turned with a beckon. The crowd parted for them.

  “I apologize for the lapse in hospitality,” she said as they headed up the corridor, two armored Sisters casually pacing them. “Your, um, friend is...”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I'm not sure you do. He is far more dangerous than just a soul-eating spirit with a grudge. If you'd told us his name outside the temple, we might have turned you away.”

  “Kinda figured,” Cob mumbled. “Why? Your leader called him somethin'...”

  “The Child by Fire. Chiat'at ce-teil Caele. He is a figure from the Ashkhevar Prophecy, destined to burn the world.”

  Cob blinked. “Well, not that he hasn't tried, but the world's still here.”

  “For now. But you've let him out, and the Long Darkness has returned.”

  “That's the opposite of burnin'.”

  “You're quite firmly in his thrall, aren't you.”

  “No.” He was proud of himself for keeping it curt, because her tone made him boil inside. “I'm not doin' this for him; I'm doin' it because it's necessary. Once it's over, he can pike off for all I care, so long as he doesn't start killin' people for no reason.”

  “And if he does?”

  “Guess I'll stop him.”

  “Are you still the Guardian?”

  He grimaced. That was indeed the flaw in his plan. “It went away. Can't take the same person twice. Jus' as well; we weren't gettin' along.”

  “Oh. That's unfortunate. So it's just the two of you against him?”

  “We're not against him, we're workin' together.”

  “Where is his sword?”

  “Arik's got it.”

  “Not that one. The black one.”

  Cob hesitated, confused. The priestess moved into the staircase-room and it took him a few long strides to catch up. “What d'you mean, black one?”

  She glanced back briefly as she started her ascent. “The black sword. The one he made from our bones. Did he just throw it away? That's callous.”

  A memory tried to surface through his bafflement, and he kept his mouth shut and let it happen, legs moving automatically. The ships, the island, the Seal in the sand...

  The black sword in Enkhaelen's bloody grip.

  It was Erosei's memory—the last he'd ever had, as he failed to keep Enkhaelen from displacing the Seals. Enkhaelen hadn't used the sword, just carried it like a tool or perhaps a lifeline, and when the Outsider's energies cocooned him…

  Cob squinted hard, but he couldn't recall if the servitor-wraiths had taken it or if it had been left in the sand. He certainly hadn't seen it since.

  “I think he lost it. Wraiths might have it, or it's buried or in the sea. Sorry.”

  “That's too bad. We would have liked to lay it to rest.”

  The conversation died after that, leaving Cob enmeshed in those old memories. Even though he'd experienced them through the eyes of another, they still felt like his: Erosei's fear and anger overridden by his own confusion and curiosity to create a different perspective. It was interesting. What he'd seen had often been horrible, but it could be useful when he took his distance. He knew more about the world than most people ever would.

  But still too little. He was pondering that when the priestess stopped in front of an actual solid door.

  “This is the washroom for this side of the complex,” she said. “Remember to knock. Over here is the bathing room.” She led to another door, which opened into a typically squat chamber lined in tiles depicting waves and water-creatures. Mirrored lanterns hung from chains that crisscrossed the ceiling, throwing sparkles of light on the water that poured from the gaping fish-head set high on the far wall. A basin lay below it, with troughs that streamed the water away in two directions. One side of the room held a hearth with buckets, kettles, a cabinet and two raised tubs; the other had a rinsing area with a drain.

  “The water is probably very cold right now, so beware,” said the priestess. “Soap and towels in the cabinet. Rinse first, then soak, and I'll send someone with a robe.”

  With that, she left. Cob shook his head, still not accustomed to the idea of bathing indoors. For the sake of everyone's noses, though, he would comply.

  He'd already stripped, rinsed and filled the tub by the time Arik stopped sniffing things, and was just sinking into the water when that furry grey blur leapt toward him. The splash and his indignant squawk echoed off the walls.

  *****

  Some time later, they found themselves in another well-cushioned waiting chamber, clean and sleepy and not alone. Knitting women—both priestesses and layfolk—filled two of the long couches, chatting companionably as a mess of small children bumbled and burbled and occasionally tussled on the thick rugs that covered the floor. Arik had already discarded his robe and was mimicking a rug, albeit a carnivorous one; whenever a child got too near, he made gobbling noises and wormed toward them on his belly, eliciting shrieks of delight.

  Cob couldn't keep his eyes open. He'd been trying to listen to the women, who gossiped like field-birds about the goings-on of the city: the governor's wife's sudden death, the White Flames' collapses, the common-sect priests' marathon services and frantic behavior, the bonfires—lit by citizens, apparently. The abrupt return of mage-relatives who had lived in Valent or served the Gold Army. The rumors from the last caravans; the trickle of news from the Shadow Folk.

  It was too warm, though. Too comfortable. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt safe somewhere. His stomach grumbled, but sleep was a much greater lure than food right now, and each time he closed his eyes he felt himself sink deeper into soothing waters, silent darkness…

  “Cob?” said someone very close. “Visitor Cob?”

  He jerked, blinked, and momentarily lost where he was as he stared up at an unfamiliar man. A little older than him, clean-shaven, with the typical round-faced and rosy-tanned Amandic look, in red-and-grey Breanan livery.

  “Uh?” he answered.

  “Cob? With, um...the special visitor? They're taking a break. He wants to see you.”

  “Oh.” He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then nodded and pushed up, wobbling a bit on legs that felt heavy and weak. “Yeah, sorry. Take me there.”

  “No apologies needed.”

  Cob toddled after him, hearing the click-clack of Arik's claws as they passed from rugs back to bare stone. He felt groggy, over-warm, but he couldn't go flinging his robe off like the wolfman did, so he made himself keep pace with the Breanan and hoped to shake off the fog.

  Back downstairs, he noted, into the quiet and the solitude. They didn't go as far as the altar room though, instead tucking past two guards and into a small side-chamber that had been recently supplied with a bed, table and lantern.

  Enkhaelen was propped up on several cushions and swaddled in blankets, bare shoulders just peeking out. He looked as sleepy as Cob felt, but managed to raise his eyebrows disdainfully upon seeing them. “Where is our gear?”

  Cob blinked, then blanched. “They, uh, said there was laundry bein' done when they came with the robes, and they'd take the bags to a room too, I dunno where...”

  “The sword?”

  He looked hopefully to Arik, who produced it from behind his back. “Were you layin' on it before?” Cob asked, baffled.

  “I put it under your couch. Did not want to scare the children.”

  Enkhaelen sighed, then seemed to shake off aggravation. “Well, not as if we need to escape. You, Shield, give us some privacy.”

  The Trifolder inclined his head, then stepped outside. Once he was out of sight, Enkhaelen beckoned them over.

  “Don't trust them,” he murmured, glancing past Cob as if trying to catch someone at the door. “We've declared a truce, but it's questionable how long it will last. Get our gear back as soon as possible, and don't talk about our business. There may be other ears listening.”
<
br />   Cob kept his own tone low. “Light followers? Think they'd sooner die than come in here.”

  “Any port in a storm. But no. No one with hostile intentions can enter a Trifold temple—which doesn't preclude spies. I've tested it. And something's going on. I overheard the Emperor talking to your girlfriend about agreements, pacts. If there was an alliance between the Light and the Trifold...” He exhaled through his teeth. “Unlikely, but I hate being laid-out, and it will be a few more sessions before I can take over my own healing.”

  Cob stared, shocked but not entirely disbelieving. “She talked to— But why would—”

  “I don't know. To her credit, she seemed confused. But we're not safe here either. Certainly I'm not.”

  “Why didn't you tell me earlier?”

  “It slipped my mind. I've had a lot to think about.”

  “D'you want us to get beddin' brought here and we'll watch over you?”

  The necromancer opened his mouth to make some sly remark, then paused and visibly reconsidered. “It's not a bad idea.”

  “We'll do that then. But...about secrets...”

  “The Seals are no secret. Anyone who knows I'm alive will expect me to do something with them. But if someone probes for specifics, weaknesses, equipment information… I wish you hadn't let them take our packs.”

  Cob grimaced, then gave the door a glance. “Yeah, uh, there's been some questions. And somethin' about a prophecy.”

  “Hekkiv'rakav en vrakaenka,” Enkhaelen snarled, clearly a curse. “Of course they bring that up. Now I want to murder them all over again.”

  “Uh, what—“

  “We're not going to talk about it. They started that hog-crap a hundred years before I was born; I don't know why they keep trying to pin it on me.”

  Because you're a fire-flinging lunatic, Cob didn't say. “Um. Also, one of 'em asked about your sword. Black sword.”

  Enkhaelen fixed him with a baleful stare. “We don't talk about that either.”

  “All right.”

  “What else?”

  “The Guardian. Told her it's gone. I think that's all.”

  “Well, fabulous.” With a sigh, the necromancer burrowed further down into the blankets, until only his eyes showed. “Get our stuff back,” he said muffledly. “Stop telling them things. And pray to whatever you worship these days that no trouble finds us here.”

  “Yep,” said Cob, already turning away. He was definitely awake now.

  Chapter 7 – Bitter Amnesty

  In the day since Enforcer Ardent's peculiar offer, Captain Sarovy had worked to catalog his demands. At the top of the list was proof of the sun's disappearance, though with their several days' worth of containment in this strange sub-basement, everyone had already lost track of the time. Without a lunar almanac or nine solid marks of sky-watching, he didn't know if he could be sure he hadn't been tricked.

  Next on the list was proper clothing. Most of the men were in dress-uniform rags or borrowed civilian clothes, clean but patchwork. That wouldn't work; he wanted their uniforms repaired or new ones found, to help rebuild both the sense of unit cohesion and their morale.

  After that, he needed his records, and pen and paper to make more. He'd seen some of them in the Enforcer's hands—a great relief, since he'd thought them all burned in the garrison fire—but didn't know how complete they were. He'd have to fill in the gaps from memory, if the voices would let him think.

  He also required a reduction in surveillance. Having metal elementals constantly watching from the balcony or clambering along the ceiling like wire spiders made the soldiers nervous. There was already enough tension over the fact that any shadow could harbor spying eyes; adding a physical threat didn't help.

  Last, he needed distractions for the men. Cards or dice or turnabout boards or supplies for repairing their own gear—something to take their minds off the concrete walls and metallic guards. Scryer Mako had done what she could to abate the traumas of the past few days, but living in captivity didn't help.

  “Beyond that, I'm satisfied with our treatment,” he told the Enforcer. They were in a tiny and clearly makeshift office, unfurnished but for the table between them and three chairs: his, hers, and Gwydren Greymark's. Her two bodyguards flanked them, leaving him alone on this side, his back to the door—a psychological escape, no more. The halls they'd passed through to arrive here had been short and straight, no stairs in sight.

  “Food's fine?” she said.

  “So I've been told, yes. I appreciate the accommodations for our more carnivorous and herbivorous men.”

  She waved that off. “It's standard. We aid all kinds. Water supply is good, bathing and sanitary facilities sufficient?”

  “Quite. Running water is a novelty for most of us.”

  “Huh. Well, I'm glad we can provide. And as for you—if these needs are met, you'll accept the deal?”

  “If they are met, I will consider it.”

  Her scarred lips twitched. “This is your price just to hear our offer?”

  “I won't be bought, Enforcer. Not for copper, not for gold. Prove your claims first, show me that you respect our dignity and autonomy, allow us to recover from these shocks—and I will hear your pitch. Otherwise you'll have to buy my men out from under me.”

  Which was entirely possible, considering the mercenary nature of the Jernizen and certain others, but Sarovy would not condemn his men to the Shadows' service without testing them. He had stopped the Enforcer before she could detail the specifics yesterday, unwilling to be pressured, and to her credit the Enforcer hadn't pushed.

  Wasn't pushing now, instead just trading glances with Gwydren Greymark. The old man frowned slightly but nodded, and Sarovy wondered how much influence the Trifold had over the Shadow Cult's dealings.

  “Fine,” said Enforcer Ardent, looking back to Sarovy. “We can do that much for you. But we have another situation related to the disposition of your troops. Greymark.”

  The old man sat forward, gnarled hands interlaced on the tabletop. He was dressed in colorful Illanic homespun and wore a grandfatherly smile, but Sarovy remembered clearly how he'd appeared outside the garrison: armor half-covered by that living lion-hide, flesh mending like a skinchanger's, his ethereal maul snapping the Sarovingian sword on impact.

  Sarovy's hands itched to clench around his throat for that.

  “I'm...acquainted with your Maker,” Greymark said without preamble. “I've fought his work before, including a few like you. You're peculiar specimens, though, and it's occurred to me that he might have sent me to you and your company on purpose, by telling me not to seek you.”

  Sarovy frowned.

  “Then little Zeli told me she recognized you—and wasn't that interesting. The soldiers who took her and her family from their home, now under the Shadow Folk's thumb. Did you know, captain, what would happen to them?”

  That grandfatherly look was gone now, those eyes hard as emeralds beneath Greymark's grizzled brows. Sarovy met them without flinching. “No. I did not. I was only told to bring them to Bahlaer. At the time, I had no reason to question my orders.”

  “Do you want to know what's happened to them, captain?” Without awaiting a response, Greymark continued, “Maegotha Cray, the grandmother, and Ammala Cray, mother, taken by the Palace. The boy, Aedin, murdered by your Maker. The youngest child, Jesalle—“

  “Taken by the Field Marshal,” Sarovy interrupted. He'd expected the news, but it still stung. “They seemed like good people. Would that we hadn't happened to them.”

  Greymark's jaw clenched, then he nodded shortly. “I've heard your Field Marshal took over the Crimson camp by Kanrodi. I'm headed there next to see if I can find the youngest girl. In the meanwhile, I'm forced to ask a favor of you. The elder sister, Izelina, has been exhibiting mentalist traits, and we know no mentalists but yours.”

  Sarovy blinked. “Scryer Yrsian identified her as a proto-mentalist, yes, but I do not know if she can train the girl. Why ask me? You c
an certainly approach her directly.”

  Enforcer Ardent snorted. “Just because she let us in to attack you, it doesn't mean we're friends. She's taken your side since the capture and made it clear that she's attached to your company. As the commander, these requests go through you.”

  “Mm. In that case...” As much as he disliked the additional burden, a second mentalist—once trained—would be of great benefit, and it seemed fitting for them to take on the survivor of the family they'd destroyed. She would be a constant, chafing reminder to do better. “Does the girl agree?”

  Greymark made a face. “She's...willful. But so is your mentalist. I trust they can come to some sort of arrangement.”

  That means 'pikes no', thought Sarovy wryly, but made a permissive gesture. “Bring her, then. There's little space for women—Yrsian and the others are bunking in the infirmary—but one more won't break us.”

  Greymark nodded with what looked suspiciously like relief and pushed up from his chair. “I oughtn't intrude on your dealing any further...”

  “It's done for now,” said Ardent, rising as well. “We need to put the captain's improvements into place, after all. Shall we break the news to the girl?”

  Greymark grimaced.

  In short order, Sarovy was back in the common hall with his men, waiting by the recessed concrete door for their new comrade to be delivered. Scryer Yrsian sat on a bench nearby, yawning into her sleeve; between the soldiers' broken conditioning, their nightmares and their stress-based misbehavior, she'd been working nearly non-stop.

  Quiet conversations evaporated as the door scraped upward, receding into the wall via some unseen mechanism. As always, black-clad Shadow Folk awaited behind it, spreading out to form a cordon around the exit once they passed through.

  “Keep your distance,” Sarovy told his soldiers as he stepped forward. At a glance, these Shadow Folk were the usual mix: as many women as men, some with the all-black eyes and dark marks of shadowblood, others plain-faced. All wore the thick black-dyed leather-and-plate armor of Enforcers, with batons heavy enough to break skulls.