The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 8

  Carefully, she checked her wrist. Maevor's filaments had left a few small marks on it, scabbed over now, and when she flexed it there was only a dull ache. Nothing compared to the one in her stomach.

  “Maevor,” she said, pushing at his shoulder. His face crinkled slightly, then relaxed again. “Maevor, wake up. If you don't, I'm leaving you here.”

  That got one eye open. She watched it skim their surroundings—the same shredded, slumping buildings as before—then return to her, working to focus on her face.

  “Do you feel any better?” she prompted. “Shadows, I don't. At least this stuff is comfortable, but I'm about ready to eat you.”

  His mouth moved slightly, then he gave a groan and tried to slide his arms under himself to push up. He'd been sleeping on his front, and as he rose she saw the chin-shaped indent he'd left in the softened white material of the street.

  She was sure there was a similar impression under her backside. Her short nails had torn up some of the fibrous road without effort, its substance lifeless now that the Palace's light was gone. Here and there, faint luminescence still lingered low on walls or in streaks within the road, but otherwise the whole city was drained, its ruins reflecting only starlight.

  At least it was lukewarm down here at street level. The skirl of wind through the skeletal heights gave her chills just to hear it.

  As Maevor gained his feet, she did the same, using the tattered wall at her back for a handhold. Fibers came away in bunches like dried-up straw, quickly breaking down to dust in her grip. A few feet away, a slumped staircase led down to murky water, all that remained of the plaza they'd passed through last—night? Lark had no clue what time it was, but it definitely should be daylight.

  Something had clearly gone wrong with her friends' plans—beyond the whole captured-and-dragged-to-the-Palace part. Granted, they'd intended to break in anyway, and the main thrust seemed to have worked: the Palace and the city were both rotting at a rapid pace, which had to mean that the Outsider 'Emperor' had been banished.

  Unfortunately, after two long naps and a ton of walking, she couldn't deny it anymore: the sun had gone with him. All their talk of him being a False Light couldn't change the evidence of that black sky.

  And what was there to do about it? Her friends hadn't returned for her. In fact, she had no way to know if they were alive. She was stranded in the center of a falling Empire with only a bodythief for company.

  As for Maevor, he looked like death. There was a sickly grey tone to his olive tan, and his eyelids hung heavy, his shoulders stooped. When she offered her arm, he grasped it with a drowning man's desperate strength. Half of her wanted to leave him to die; the other half couldn't bear to be alone.

  And he'd tried to help her, in his way. Hadn't hurt her. He merited some pity.

  “Ready?” she said, and waited until he nodded before she started walking. The path compressed softly beneath their feet, making every step an effort, but if there was one thing she'd decided, it was that she wouldn't die here. Not in Daecia City. Even if she only made it into the swamp, at least she'd be out.

  Most of its citizens couldn't say the same. She'd started noticing them after Maevor shook off his initial seizures: other people fallen on the streets or slumped within the collapsing buildings or even drifting in the canals. Converts, previously tied to the Palace and supported by its energies through the puppet-strings in their skin.

  Now the strings were cut, the puppets discarded.

  Not all had been dead, of course. She'd seen them twitch, foam, claw at the ground or their own flesh, cry, beg—but mostly scream. Such harrowing screams. Perhaps some had recovered, like Maevor with Lark's support, but she hadn't stayed to observe.

  There were no screams now. The bodies they passed lay still, sometimes alone but increasingly in clusters, as the streets broadened and arched toward what Lark hoped was the main road.

  They had to find it soon or else they'd be marching through mire. For every good route, there were two or three impassable ones: places where the street had subsided into swirling water, or a spire had crumpled onto the path, or the terrain had bent so much beneath the sagging buildings that the road inclined nearly vertical. Stairs were the worst—little more than cobwebs strung over cartilage, every footfall daring them to fail.

  She wished she'd tried to flee the city earlier. She should have headed for the gate the moment the soldiers passed her by, not wandered off to see the sights. But back then, the city had been beautiful, its soaring towers like luminous lace tatted against the sky, and she'd been in despair of her chances. There had been no reason not to wander.

  Oh Shadow, if I could go back in time, I'd give myself such a smack.

  Preferably at the moment I first met Cob.

  She supposed she couldn't blame him for this. It was her fault for letting herself get dragged into his business and then chasing after him the moment she got free. But even when she'd finally wised up and abandoned the group, she'd still been sucked back in. That boy was some kind of spiritual whirlpool.

  All she wanted now was to go home to Bahlaer and never deal with this sort of shit again.

  As they walked, her mind warmed up, and she tried to plan their escape. They had arrived here on horseback, so perhaps there were horses stabled at the gates—unless they got sent for conversion too. Regardless, the only route she knew was the White Road, which might be degraded but was probably thick enough not to sink into the swamp immediately. The trek from here to Keceirnden, the nearest city, was over a hundred miles, which the horse had traveled in about a day and a half.

  On foot, without food and with Maevor dependent on her, she didn't like the odds.

  So what else? There were three other directions she could try: north into Krovichanka, east toward the Riddish hills, or west toward mountainous Darronwy. Unfortunately, all were about the same distance, and only the Keceirnden route had a road.

  That left one final thought: mages. She'd seen some in the city earlier—or at least what looked like mages, in colored or white robes not cut like pilgrims' garb. She wore an orange robe in the same style, bell-sleeved and thickly embroidered, and though she could barely empower its enchantments, she knew she looked adequately arcane. Plus, she had Ripple.

  If she could approach some mage here and get them to open a portal...

  But if they had that power, surely they'd be long gone.

  Grim or not, I won't quit. I don't care if I walk until my heart bursts. I won't be trapped here, and I won't stop trying. This city can kiss my—

  “What's that?” said Maevor.

  Lark halted, blinking. She'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn't registered the noise. Now she caught it through the ever-present rush of water: a faint rise and fall that sounded like… “Singing?”

  Maevor's brows crinkled. It was hard to read his expression in the weird light, but she thought he looked concerned. “A sign of life,” he said without conviction.

  “Is it bad?”

  “I... There's no way to tell yet.”

  “All right, different angle. If it is bad, why?”

  He gave her a sidelong glance, almost furtive, then grimaced. “Paeans, possibly. Or laments, or if we're unfortunate...castigations. Songs we sing to praise the Light, to call it back from the depths of winter, or to punish ourselves for our transgressions against it.”

  “Still not answering my question.”

  “Castigations require sacrifices.”

  She eyed him askance. “I hope you don't mean they're killing people.”

  “No. Probably not.” His voice held no real assurance.

  “Well pikes, if we've got crazy people up there singing and murdering each other, what do we do?”

  “Avoid them?”

  “Beside the obvious.”

  Maevor shrugged wearily. With a sigh, Lark peered up the staircase they'd been approaching. The buildings to either side were in better repair, their top floors tilted but only somewhat
peeling, and the stairs themselves looked solid. She figured that was a sign of nearing the road.

  “We can take a peek, and if it's bad, we try another direction,” she decided. “Parallel toward the city entrance? Maybe it'll be less crazy over there.”

  “Provided it's still open. We don't know what's happened since it all started...dying.”

  Grimacing, Lark remembered the tunnel-part of the entrance. If that had collapsed, they'd have a rough time climbing over it.

  “Well, can't just stand here and speculate,” she muttered, starting up the stairs. It unnerved her to feel the springy framework under the fraying web, but it was stronger than others she'd climbed, so she made good time. Maevor stayed below; by now, they knew better than to risk the weight of two on a dubious structure.

  Slowly, cautiously, she peeked past the top step.

  No people were visible—a relief. Ahead, a path ran perpendicular to her stairs, alongside a recessed canal where the sound of rushing water rumbled like a threat. The bridge that spanned it had sagged like a partially-cooked noodle; it didn't make her optimistic but at least it hadn't shredded away. Above and beyond was another level, possibly the main road, from which she heard the singing and caught glimpses of movement.

  The lower path ran straight for a while, but disappeared beneath several collapsed structures before it could reach the entry. Bridges studded the space in between: other options.

  Sliding onto the path, she gestured for Maevor to follow, and felt the wobble in the white stairs as he obeyed. There was more luminance in the threads here, revealing patterns on the path that reminded her of fish-bones. She had to wonder how long it had taken to make this place, and how much energy and attention its creator had spent on it.

  Not enough to sustain it.

  “Any better idea of their song?” she asked as Maevor clambered up beside her. He shook his head, and she sighed. “So I guess we attempt a bridge and hope there's no one hostile right above us.”

  “And if there is?”

  I could jump in the canal. Ripple might protect me.

  That didn't sound like much fun in midwinter. “We talk our way out of it,” she decided, forcing confidence, “or barring that, we run.”

  “I should go first this time. I'm less remarkable.”

  She nodded. It wasn't just his lack of a bright orange robe: as a bodythief, he had the ability to fade into the background—to become unnoticeable. “Be careful. Take it nice and slow.”

  He gave her a wan smile, then moved to inspect the sagging bridge. It must have satisfied him, for after a moment he dared to crawl onto it, keeping near the firmest-looking edge as he inched his way up. She could see his fingers dig into the white substance, but it held without shredding, which meant she could manage it too.

  Times like this, I wish I was a goblin.

  The further Maevor went, the more it turned from a crawl to a climb. Still, he managed to reach road-level eventually, and hung there for a moment with just his upper body crested before hauling himself fully over.

  She waited silently, watching his back as he observed the goings-on above. Then he gave the signal, and she bit her lip and started across.

  It was easier than a lot of earlier climbs—a blessing, since her arms and legs were wobbly from hunger. Sticking to his path, she fitted her fingers and feet into the marks he'd made and sternly ignored her heart every time it leapt for her throat. Down below, dark water rushed and churned, but she refused to look.

  At the other side, she accepted Maevor's help up, then stayed behind him while trying to orient herself. To the north, the road rose inexorably toward the Palace, that once-fabulous structure now looming like a massive spider's nest tangled in trees. It had been built over what looked like an arc of fine stone spires, but its rags remained on only a few, the rest of them dark against the sky, and its great central bulk was riddled with holes and flapping shreds. A glow remained at the very front, perhaps the entrance gate, but it was far from bright.

  Closer, the broad main road looked stable, its decorative benches sagging but its edges firm. The narrow central platforms were still there, as were the preachers. Head and shoulders above their crowds, they seemed to guide the singing.

  The closest had a hoarse, crackling voice that nevertheless trumpeted across the way. He was also standing stripped to the waist, with some kind of lash in hand that he periodically swept over his shoulder. About half of the crowd was doing the same, and in the road's dim light she saw welts and some blood.

  “Castigation,” Maevor murmured. “We need to avoid anyone doing that.”

  “No argument here.”

  Beside the singing crowds, there were other survivors moving singly or in small clumps, some headed toward the Palace and some away. Others stood between the flows as if unsure where salvation might lay.

  Distantly to the south, she thought she saw the open tunnel, but she couldn't be sure.

  “Well...let's get moving,” she said. “I feel bad for these people but it's not like they'd listen to us.”

  Maevor shook his head. “They wouldn't. I... Even now, I feel pulled toward the Palace, like I'd be abandoning it otherwise. Will that fade once we reach the swamp, or will I just...”

  The way he trailed off concerned her. There had been an emptiness in his gaze since the moment he collapsed, and she knew that if she hadn't been prompting him, he'd probably have stayed there and let himself die. She didn't want to be responsible for him, but he needed it.

  “I don't know,” she said. “But you're not done yet. I promised you a place in Bah-kai and I won't be made a liar.”

  She saw him try to smile. Then he straightened and said, “Keep behind me as much as you can. We don't want to take any risks.”

  “Understood.”

  They started walking, him on the inside, her closer to the canal, and she peered past him at the other survivors. Most were clearly just pilgrims, shoulders slumped beneath their robes, but there were White Flame soldiers with their armor peeling away and eyeless priests with blood-streaked faces. A few of the preachers were priests, but most seemed like laymen, and the majority of the eyeless types she spotted looked too exhausted to sing. They stood quiet amid clumps of White Flames as anxious pilgrims tried to accost them with demands and questions.

  One scuffle erupted when a priest wouldn't—or couldn't—answer. Maevor backed Lark away from it just in time to avoid a pilgrim being flung into the canal. The White Flame perpetrator stared at them briefly, featureless helm shredded enough to show the line of his jaw and the edge of his mouth, then turned and plunged back into the fray.

  “Pikes,” she hissed. “These are their own people...”

  Maevor had no answer, just hurried her along when he glimpsed an opening. He was doing his unnoticeable thing, she was sure, otherwise she couldn't fathom why they hadn't been attacked. With her dark skin, she was an obvious foreigner, and Maevor was too tanned to be most types of Imperial. Neither of them wore proper pilgrim's robes.

  Maybe this is an internal struggle. No time to waste on outsiders.

  It would fit the pattern she'd seen in the Empire thus far. From Corvia to Riddian, people just seemed baffled by her presence, as if she had no place in their reality. The Rift isolated the Imperial interior from the rest of the world, but she hadn't expected them to be this insular.

  Perhaps if we just mind our own business, we'll be able to—

  Her gaze caught on a cluster of White Flames arguing near a platform, and she blinked. One of them wore a damaged black blade across his back, cinched to his armor by its strands. She remembered seeing something like it during the chaos at Akarridi, and much more recently at the outgrowth-village—and by the spiny look of its bearer's pale hair, she thought it might be the same man.

  Cob's former camp-mate. Enver? Elenar?

  Nasty piece of work. But he followed Cob into the Palace.

  Shadow's Heart, here goes nothing.

  “Maevor, I'm gonna do
something stupid,” she murmured, then stepped out from behind him. Peripherally she saw him hesitate; she could only hope he chose to back her up.

  The rest of the area was relatively clear, just patches of pilgrims drifting woefully along. As she edged closer, the shortest of the six White Flames spotted her, and stared with over-large eyes before nudging the blade-wielder's arm.

  That man turned, taking her in narrowly, and she struggled to hide her shock at his looks. He'd been terrifying before—skin stark white and marred with pox scars, mouth too wide, teeth serrated—but there was a deathly shadow to him now, as if something was eating away at his insides. At least she remembered his name. “Erevard,” she called, amazed at her own audacity and briefly gratified by the confusion on his face.

  Then his expression turned cold, and he reached for the hilt.

  “No,” she said sharply. “No swords, just words.”

  “Where are they?” he rasped. "Cob. Trevere." His gaze skipped past her to Maevor, then back.

  Stopping just short of lunging range, she planted her hands on her hips. “I was going to ask you that. You went in after them. I don't know if they came out.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “What happened in there?”

  By now, the other five White Flames had moved into a semi-circle to back him. To her relief, they showed no weapons. More than that, one of them looked Illanic beneath his half-made helm.

  “Crazy shit,” the short one with the big eyes interposed before Erevard could respond. Lark couldn't place his heritage; he had scruffy black hair but was too pale for an Amand, too small for a Trivestean, and with claw-like tattoos peeking out from where his armor stopped at the wrists. “Someone blew a piking huge hole in the throne-room floor and there was tons of fighting, plus some black stuff that ate anything it touched. Probably it's gutting the whole place now. So who are you?”