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

by H. Anthe Davis

  “Sergeant Presh?” he said finally.

  She wrinkled her nose. “He has chosen to stay with your mages, who have been tolerably well-behaved. The woman asks about you. Shall I say something?”

  “No, thank you.” That Makoura Yrsian was still here—still aligned with Blaze Company despite calling their enemies down upon them—was a curiosity he would not satisfy by proxy. As a Scryer, she should have been fully capable of vanishing from Shadow custody. “And the Enlightened Messenger, Cortine?”

  “Still alive. Not particularly whole. His own fault, you understand.”

  Sarovy nodded. The last he had seen of Cortine had been the priest tearing his own eyes out, a scene made only slightly less disgusting by the fact that those eyes were made of Palace threads. “Will you execute him?”

  “We're not savages, to murder priests simply for their choice of god.”

  A faint smirk touched his lips. By that logic, the Risen Phoenix Empire was quite savage, purging pagans and heretics from all of its territories—or at least exhorting such. In practice, it had employed many like Medic Shuralla, a Trifold cultist, to keep its conquering armies healthy. He'd thought it hypocritical until Cortine insisted that it was better for the men to die than be 'tainted' by such healing. Now he just thought it wise.

  He was not entirely pleased Cortine had survived.

  “Now, about your kind,” said the Enforcer. “Give and take, captain.”

  He considered staying silent, but it would only be for spite. He no longer cared about the Empire's secrets. “I am told that I am a sarisigi en-dalur—a 'body-mimic'. It seems I have been one for the past twelve years without being aware of my nature.”

  “That nature being...?”

  “Duplication of others' appearances for disguise or replacement.” He grimaced, remembering the grey shape in the shadows of the Crimson camp, the clay remnants poor Weshker had retched up. How horrified he'd been, unaware that they were a mirror of himself.

  “Is it common for your kind to not know what you are?”

  “No. I am apparently a rare case of overthrow. They learn a form by engulfing and consuming the victim, which also digests the soul. I was consumed bodily but, with some assistance, managed to unseat the sarisigi's essence and claim its substance as my own.”

  The Shadow guards shifted uncomfortably, but the Enforcer merely frowned. “And you were human before this?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  His skin prickled, an atavistic reaction that made him feel at once real and manipulated. It came from the template, which held not just his physical dimensions but his original body's responses, reflexes and muscle memory.

  But were they truly his? He didn't remember being given the pendant. For years he'd thought it was an heirloom like his sword, but in truth the specialists' Maker—Archmagus Enkhaelen—had created it and pressed it upon him at some point before his memories restarted.

  “I don't,” he reasoned slowly. “I know that I have been mindwashed many times...and perhaps edited. My life before the Crimson Army could have been manufactured. But I do not see why I would have been given a messy life if what my superiors desired was my compliance, and the Maker had no purpose to offer me. Thus I believe in myself.”

  Her brows inclined, but if she doubted him, she didn't say it. Instead, she leaned forward to place a small lump of glass and wire midway between them. “Tell me about this.”

  “It is an eiyetakri. That is the term, yes?” She gave him a bland look, so he elaborated, “I claimed it from the Shadowland at the time of the crush.”

  “Why?”

  “I...” He regarded the object thoughtfully, seeing in its whorled surface the memory of fire underground and dust and smoke trapped within red wards. “I felt I should not forget what had happened. Or my complicity in it.”

  “Complicity, captain?”

  “I led a group into the Shadowland in pursuit of a fugitive, which violated the agreement between my former General and your organization. This incident brought you into Field Marshal Rackmar's sights.”

  “You think he would not have attacked us if not for your action?”

  Sarovy considered. “Perhaps not in that place, or so immediately, but no. He despises anything associated with the Dark.” A memory floated up from one of his discussions with Cortine, and he frowned. “He labels rather more things 'Dark' than I had expected.”

  “Such as?”

  “Women. All unconverted women.”

  “You don't hold this view?”

  “No, it's ridiculous. I have several in my company and they are no less reliable than the men. I confess to some distaste for the way foreign women present themselves, but you would find that sentiment in any Trivestean. There is little difference between genders back home, so we find the divisions exaggerated and artificial out here. But this applies to foreign men as well.”

  The Enforcer narrowed her eyes, their veined blackness making it difficult to read her expression. “Interesting, I suppose, but not what I was asking. Your view of the Dark, captain.”

  He hesitated. There were many things he could say, but the useful ones were all lies, and the curses would not help him.

  “I would see it vanquished,” he stated finally. “I believe it whispers evil to us, and can grow inside of us until we are hollowed-out vessels. But I do not believe that anything is Dark by birth. There must be a measure of submission to it.”

  Indicating her eyes, the Enforcer said, “You think I sought this?”

  He remembered the Shadowland as he'd seen it through the mages' Veil, black-eyed children playing in the street despite the deepening dusk. “Did you not?”

  “It's in the blood. We have no more control over it than you have over being Trivestean.”

  “Then you are...natively Dark?”

  Her mouth twisted. “We're of the Shadow. Not the Dark.”

  “What is the difference?”

  It was her turn to pause, as if she hadn't expected the question. “The Shadow is a friend and partner of the True Light, because without the Light, there would be nothing to define Shadow. Shadowbloods like me can walk in the light, and plain humans can live in the Shadow Realm, though not forever. Your kind could live in the realm too, probably, if the eiyets didn't hate you. It's a shelter and a dividing line between Light and Dark.”

  Sarovy frowned. “And the Dark itself?”

  “The Dark is also a part of this world, but it's been...corrupted. It's the raw essence of materiality, physicality—the source of all elements—but a piece of the Void was locked inside it when the Seals were placed, and now everything that dwells in it is either frenzied with fear or has been hollowed out as a Void servant. If you open yourself to it unwisely, such creatures can slip into you and wear you like armor—even if you're Shadow Folk. It's a bad way to go.”

  Sarovy thought of the blackness yawning beneath his men's horses. “Yet you use it.”

  Her expression didn't change, but he saw a tic by one eye. “You used your Light as a weapon against us. Shadow can't fight that, so yes. I touched the Dark to assault you back. I regret it. It's a dangerous tool, and I overused it in anger.”

  “You, personally, opened a way for the Dark to eat twenty-four of my men?”

  She leaned forward as blackness blotted out the white in her eyes. “You, personally, ordered flares into the Merry Tom Tavern when you attacked it, to prevent my people from retreating. You dragged them out and executed them on the street, harassed us up and down the coast, sent more of my people to your Palace, then brought your nasty brand of warfare into Bahlaer—a city that had already surrendered to you. Tell me that your abominations are not as dangerous as the Dark in my hands. Tell me that about you.”

  “I do not defend my actions.”

  “No? You would do things differently now?”

  He looked past her to the shadowblooded guards. The shorter man wore an expression of deep and poisonous hostil
ity—clearly a Bahlaeran. The tall woman seemed contemptuous, regarding him down her long fine nose. The Enforcer herself, settling back, had resumed the bland look she'd worn for the bulk of the interview.

  “I seek no clemency,” he said, “but yes. Much of what I did was on my own impetus, but I feel...misled. I have acted on bad information, to the detriment of my men.”

  “Not your own detriment?”

  “I do not matter.”

  Her face pinched, black eyes narrowing—then she rose and picked up the stack of papers. “Walk with us,” she said as she turned toward the folding screen.

  “Ardent—“ objected the tall woman, but the Enforcer cut her off with a look.

  Sarovy stood slowly, uncertain. Since his tacit surrender, he had been expecting interrogation, execution, or a trial if the cult was feeling civil. Not isolation and a brief talk.

  The man gestured curtly for him to follow the Enforcer, who had already passed behind the screen. He did so, hesitating when he saw the black opening in the wall, but the man planted a hand on his back and pushed him through.

  Immediately a mass of hissing, shrilling dark things engulfed him, tiny teeth digging in. He forced his arms up to cover his head, the tattered fabric of his uniform jacket providing some defense. The hand on his back propelled him forward, and he shuffled on, willing himself to be calm. They hadn't hurt him the first time through; with luck, they wouldn't hurt him now.

  Of course, hurt was relative. He could sense small chunks of his substance being ripped off painlessly only for the wounds to fill back in. How much can I lose before I feel it?

  Under him, the path was hard yet slightly tacky, like drying clay or spiderweb. The air had an empty-basement scent to it, but the few glimpses he caught through the antagonistic mob were of a vast cavernous space lit by a sourceless ochre glow.

  Another shove from behind, then the feel of tile beneath his boots. With reluctance, the shrieking things peeled away, allowing him to smooth his short hair back and regain some composure before he stepped out from behind the new screen.

  The room they had entered was not what he'd expected: no jail or council hall or bizarre Shadow place but a large lamp-lit kitchen. Flour-dusted women worked along one wall, kneading dough and tending ovens; a cluster of younger helpers sat by the cellar door, slicing vegetables into a central pot. A scruffy rug of a dog lay by them, napping. Nearby, one woman removed glass jars from a boiling pot with tongs and set them on a rack, while another chopped apples and red rania from a stack of baskets.

  An island-counter stood in the center, half-covered in measuring cups and spice jars. The other half served as a table for four incongruous figures: a grizzled white-bearded man in plainclothes; a heavyset slouching fellow in fine brocade and jewels; a prim woman in brown; and an adolescent girl, dark-haired and sullen-faced as she picked at a crust of bread.

  He recognized all of them. Gwydren Greymark, Lord Governor Bahdran, Madam Lirayen...and the Cray girl. The one Scryer Yrsian had tried to get excused from the Palace by arguing that she was a mentalist. There was a trencher on the table before them, bearing the remains of bread, cheese, pickled sliced vegetables and spreads. Bizarre for high-ranking individuals to be eating here—and even more so for Sarovy to be brought right to them.

  “Enforcer Ardent,” said Greymark, rising from his seat. “Your judgment?”

  “Mixed. I thought you'd want to ask your own questions.”

  “I have a few, yes.” He gestured to two empty stools pulled up to the counter, and the Enforcer took the one closest to the group. Then they all looked at Sarovy.

  He blinked slowly, nonplussed. Here he was, a few arm-lengths from the leader of the city and an equal distance from any number of knives and cleavers. The two Shadow agents remained at his back, but he had not been restrained in any way.

  Not that he would attack. The girl's presence bought his compliance; the last time he'd seen her, he had been handing her off to Field Marshal Rackmar's men to be taken to the Palace.

  “Well, go on, sit,” said Greymark, not unkindly. “Do you eat? We can have more brought, but we weren't sure.”

  Sarovy considered it, then shook his head. He felt no hunger and would rather not be distracted. “No, thank you. To what do I owe this offer?”

  Madam Lirayen answered. “We saw your...altercation with your commander and are interested to hear your reasons.”

  “By altercation, you mean when my lieutenant and I decapitated him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What value is this to you?”

  “Your Empire's behavior has always been...erratic, and your insurrection was oddly timed. We wish to understand.”

  Sarovy shook his head slowly, gaze sliding from the Madam to the Lord Governor, whose eyes narrowed as if sensing a threat, then to Greymark and the Enforcer and back to Lirayen. “I will rephrase,” he said. “What are you offering me for my knowledge?”

  “Your continued ability to draw breath!” barked the governor.

  “I do not need to breathe.”

  Wrath crossed the man's florid face. Jabbing a beringed finger at Sarovy, he snapped, “I will not have your backtalk. You have thrown my city into chaos! Not enough that you send my militia to their deaths, persecute my people, and burn down government property, but you mock me as well? I am the fully-mantled governor of this city-state, and you will—“

  “Mekhos, Mekhos,” said Madam Lirayen, touching his arm soothingly, “I do not think he was mocking you.”

  “He doesn't need to breathe,” said the Enforcer in dry support.

  The governor's expression wavered, then hardened. “His life, then. His continued existence, unholy as it might be!”

  Sarovy said nothing, just held the governor's stare. After a moment, the red-faced man growled, “If not yours, then those of your soldiers. They can be executed at any time—“

  “Mekhos!”

  “—as summarily as you executed Tonner and his men.”

  Anger tingled through Sarovy. “That is not an offer. That is a hostaging.”

  “And not something he can carry out,” said the Enforcer. She'd half-turned to face Sarovy, one hand drumming on the counter-top, the other resting lightly against the baton at her hip. “Your men are in my custody, not his. Governor, we are trying to be constructive.”

  “There can be no cooperation with this man!” the governor snapped, jabbing his finger again. “He is a fanatic! There is nothing he can do but harm us more!”

  Madam Lirayen frowned. “He can provide a much-needed perspective—”

  “I apologize,” Sarovy cut in, “but I must agree with the Lord Governor. What makes you think that I will cooperate with you?”

  They all stared at him, the governor seething, Madam Lirayen sad, Greymark clearly puzzled. The Enforcer's scarred lips twitched slightly. “You're not afraid at all, captain?”

  He glanced at her, considering his response. He was gambling with his fate and he knew it, the melange of anger, revulsion and lingering, painful loyalty overriding the more pragmatic instinct that urged him to feign obedience and revolt later. “Will what I do or say affect how you treat my men?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then no. I have nothing more to fear.”

  “But you do,” said Madam Lirayen, leaning forward. “We all do. It is why we've gathered here, captain, instead of in a comfortable parlor or some faraway refuge. There is no escaping this new danger. Quite simply, the sun is gone.”

  He blinked slowly. “The... Madam, what?”

  “Mother Matriarch,” Greymark corrected.

  The woman tutted. “Madam is fine, Gwydren. He is not of our faith. Captain, according to the candles, there has been no sign of the sun since we took you in twenty-six marks ago. It should now be noon of Midwinter Third.”

  His mouth opened but no sound came out. There were eighteen marks in a day, with noon the ninth. Counting back meant that not only had there been no dawn this day, but no
dawn the day prior. Darkness Day.

  “That is not possible,” he said faintly.

  “We can show you the sky,” the governor sneered. “No sun, no moon—“

  “Mind you, it was the dark of the mother moon already,” said Madam Lirayen.

  “—only stars. And it is cold.”

  Slowly, feeling as if he had slipped into a nightmare, Sarovy let his gaze roam the kitchen. It was warm to the brink of uncomfortable in here, and windowless, the only egress the cellar door and an upward staircase in an alcove beside it. The door at the top of the stairs was covered in a pinned-up blanket, with bricks holding down the edges.

  “Cold,” he echoed.

  “It does not get cold here,” the governor said stiffly. “It barely even gets cool. And yet there has been snow falling—snow! In all my sixty years, I have never seen snow here!”

  “Snow.”

  “Not much,” Madam Lirayen averred, “but it has caused a stir. And the wind—such a frigid wind. It cuts right through our houses. I've advised my people to move their families to the inner rooms or the Kheri tunnels to conserve fuel. We have few stockpiles to give out.”

  Struggling to wrap his mind around it, Sarovy said, “Go back, please. The sun failed to rise on Darkness Day?”

  Lirayen nodded. “Yes, some marks after the Kheri took you into custody.”

  “After their assault on our ritual vigil. After our—“ He saw again the Light fleeing him, the attempted dissolution of his body. The specialists writhing on the ground in pain or sprawled limp. “Our communal seizure.”

  “And after the bizarre reaction of the Shadow Realm. Yes, captain,” said the Enforcer. “We're fairly sure these things are linked. The abominations who survived reported a force trying to pull them from their bodies. Did you have the same experience?”

  His knees unhinged, but he managed to angle himself onto the stool before he could go down. Every false nerve in his body felt alight, crackling with useless static, and all at once the whispers swelled up again. All the victims who had contributed to the building of this body. He tried to shake it off, to focus, and was aghast to see that his hands had gone greyish.