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

by H. Anthe Davis

  “Linciard,” he said slowly, “that was while we were at war. The situation has changed. We will not be rescued. We have no other allies. We can either trust in their offer or sulk in chains while the world falls to the Dark. I understand that you want to do the right thing, but sometimes what's right is not resistance.”

  The lieutenant's brows drew down in concern, and Sarovy sighed. He'd worked with Linciard long enough to know how attached he got to people—even superiors—and how protective it made him. Fortunately, he could be managed.

  “This is not a matter of opinion,” he said sternly. “Tell me what problems you foresee and what we can do to resolve them. That goes for all of you—I want questions that I can bring to the Enforcer; I want your men's requirements for service. Remember, we do not need to decide this as a group. Those who are not specialists may be released—make sure they know that.” He looked to Linciard. “That means you too.”

  Linciard dropped his gaze. “No sir. I'm staying with you. I just—“

  “Have doubts. Good. Go explore those doubts. I need to speak to the mages.”

  A murmur of yessirs went through the group, and they separated. It hurt to think that he might not lead them for much longer—that they might blend with the Shadow Folk or be scattered to the winds. What would he be if he lost his company? If he was alone?

  The whispers had an answer—

  But no, he wouldn't be on his own. He would have the other specialists.

  Steadying himself with that thought, he led Presh, Voorkei and Tanvolthene over to an area of cots that had been vacated by recovered ruengriin. As they got settled, he spotted Scryer Mako cutting her way toward them through the dispersing officers. “What did I miss?” she called as she approached.

  “I'm sure you know,” he said, gesturing for her to join. “But if not: the Shadow Cult has made its offer. The specialists and I likely have no choice, but the rest of you do. Either work for them or go home.”

  “I'm game,” she said. “I've been voting for treachery since that hog-crap at the garrison, and I've already squeezed a private room and freedom-of-movement out of them.”

  “Somehow, I am not surprised.”

  “And you don't have a problem with it?” She eyed him doubtfully. “I'd have figured you'd fight this until your last breath.”

  “It does not please me, but I am reserving judgment. Right now, the details are up to the men, not me; wherever they wish me to steer, I shall. The captain serves the company.”

  She looked puzzled, but just said, “All right.”

  “Now.” He turned to Presh. “Magus, the Enforcer says you know something about the Light. Some southern secret.”

  Presh blinked. Despite a month's association, he was still a mystery to Sarovy. His file had been as heavily redacted as Houndmaster Vrallek's, and though Archmagus Enkhaelen's fingerprints were all over his transfer to Blaze Company, there was no clear reason for it—nor for why Presh had been listed as a sergeant instead of a mage. He wore a robe now, but it was a taller man's striped lounging-robe, draped on him like he was a child.

  “I know many things about the Sun Father, the Southern Light,” he said slowly, “but only one that I would call secret. I do not know what use it is to you.”

  “Speak it. We shall see.”

  Presh took a breath, then ran a hand over his black goatee. His eyes had gone distant. “I studied magic in Taradzur, southwest of Kanrodi—both city-states of Pajhrastha and once vassal to Yezad. Though I paid my way by working as a janitorial summoner, my passion was for energies. Optics. I wanted to see the stars.

  “Such studies are forbidden now, but there was a time when astronomers were greatly respected. The Long Darkness ended that. The sun was gone for many months, and when it returned, the astronomers saw that it did not match their calculations: it was not where and how it should be. They believed it was an interloper—a False Light.

  “The followers of the Sun Father called this the Astronomers' Heresy, and burned every astronomer who supported it. Burned their books, their towers—nearly all of their knowledge. They decreed that observing the sky so closely was an intrusion upon the Celestial Lovers, Sun Father and Shade Mother, and that the penalty for such voyeurism was death.

  “But while their faiths reign supreme in Yezad where the Heresy began, it is not so in Pajhrastha. I thought that if I was quiet, I would have little to fear; I would not publish findings, only observe and marvel at the wonders above. But I saw exactly what the heretical astronomers had. The sun... I have called it a mask, but it is not that. More like a hole in the sky through which light leaks.

  “I couldn't stay silent; I had to tell the priesthood that something was wrong, that we were being tricked. I thought the Pajhrasthani priests might listen, not being such fanatics—but they tortured me. They burned all my belongings except the telescope which I'd hid. Then they released me, I think to see if I would lead them to other heretics. Instead I fled for your lands. I thought your Light might be kinder.

  “I was wrong. The Circle laughed at me, and your White Flames smashed my telescope. They meant to torture me too, but they were stopped. The Archmagus did not understand what I tried to tell him—I was delirious then, and spoke Imperial badly—but he said he was interested and would protect me. He hid me in the army.

  “I think he became very busy, for we did not speak again. And I could not remake my telescope, not with the army's tools. But I observed nevertheless.

  “There is a story in Pajhrastha, that the Sun Father once had two eyes with which to watch the world. They were so fierce that all quailed before them, and fires lit wherever his gaze lingered. Out of pity, he chose to close one so that the people would come out where he might see them, and when the Shade Mother came, hiding behind her white moon-mask, he learned to close both eyes sometimes so that she would emerge and kiss him.

  “I do not know what truth there might be in such fables. I only know that the sun we've lost was not the Sun Father, and that the sun before the first Long Darkness was not your Light.”

  Sarovy stared at him, trying to make sense of it. The other mages looked equally perturbed. “Scryer Yrsian,” he said finally, “does the Silent Circle ban astronomy?”

  “Actually, yes. Um, Voorkei, Gejara?”

  “Our universities do not van any study, vhut is not fhofhular. Ffho—”

  “Popular?”

  “Hyes. Very secretive, astrononers. Vork vith wraiths, is said.”

  “To do what?”

  The spindly ogre-blood shrugged, then tugged thoughtfully at one of his chin-braids. “Light is energy-source for their kind. If this is wrong light, fherhafs adafting to it? Or hiding knowledge to hide veakness?”

  “You should have told us this sooner!” Mako snapped, rounding on Presh. She looked ready to shake him by his robe-front. “If this is related to the new Dark...”

  “I don't see how it vould not ve,” opined Voorkei.

  “We need to sit down and have a talk.”

  Presh raised his hands helplessly, and Mako did grab him by the robe then, and shake him once, before hauling him off toward who-knew-where. Voorkei followed in their wake, voicing garbled opinions; for a moment, the ex-White Flame mage Tanvolthene just stared after them, wild-eyed.

  Then he said, “With your permission, captain?” and Sarovy nodded, both aware that Tanvolthene was still on thin ice with the company. He trotted off to join the bickering knot, leaving Sarovy with his swirling thoughts.

  *****

  A mark later, Scryer Mako turned a corner with extra vigor and nearly smacked into Enforcer Ardent.

  It wasn't unusual to run into enforcers in the halls. Before now, she'd always had a Shadow escort, but there had always seemed to be extra enforcers lurking nearby, as if she might suddenly start blasting her guards. She didn't mind; it was a reasonable precaution.

  What was unusual was running into the lead enforcer, especially in such an out-of-the-way tunnel. They'd met at her o
ffice before—several times actually, to discuss company issues and trade friendly barbs—but there had always been an edge of formality to it. Now she could sense Ardent's interest and agitation even through the lingering cloud of her own annoyance, and the combination made her steps slow just enough for the enforcer to fall in at her side.

  "Mako!" said Ardent with feigned brightness. "How are you getting on with your new apprentice?" Her expression was pleasant, but nervous sparks kept rising from her mind, clear as day to Mako's attuned senses.

  Mako considered picking up speed to shake her; she still had energy to burn off from the argument with Presh. Instead, she let herself drop to a strolling pace and made a face. "Izelina is...a complicated girl," she said. "Strong-willed, which is essential—except that we first met as enemies and I had a hand in the loss of her family. Greymark's calmed her, and she's interested in learning to control her mental talents, but it remains to be seen how well we'll mesh. If she can channel her anger into her work, she'll be a powerful force."

  "Good, good," said Ardent too quickly. "And you'll take her on, move her into the lodgings we're giving you? I'm afraid we can't offer that to the rest of Blaze Company yet."

  "It's fine. I doubt the men really want to be drawn out and separated right now."

  "True. I apologize for foisting her upon you without warning, but Greymark was worried about her condition. Bad migraines, I'm told."

  "Wise of him. Mentalist awakenings can be brutal."

  "If you have any concerns, or other needs that I can reasonably satisfy—"

  "Is this about the vote?"

  She saw those sparks jump again, but Ardent merely raised her brows. "The vote? For your company to join us? Scryer, I have no intention of influencing your decision."

  "No? Not even by offering us favors?" They stared at each other sidelong, still strolling, but after a moment Mako allowed a smile to crack her bland mask. "Look, I can see that you're worried," she told the shadowblood woman. "You're projecting it all over the place. But you have nothing to fear. The deal is fair and solid—far better than we'd expected—and the only real hitch is company morale. There will be some men who simply can't work with you unless forced, and I can't say whether the captain will do that. He's unpredictable when he's weighing duty against his men's needs."

  "I would think he always sides with duty," said the Enforcer, but the sparks were ebbing, the tense line of her shoulders settling. "He just...seems that way."

  "At first glance, yes. But that's what got stupid Colonel Wreth killed. He thought Sarovy would be loyal to the Empire until death—but Sarovy chose the company instead. That's why we're here. Now, though, you've got the poor fellow tied up in knots, trying to decide if he should cling to the Light or jump feet-first into the Dark, or—"

  "Not the Dark," Ardent cut in. "The Shadow."

  Her simmering sense of offense made Mako smirk. "Oh, I know," she said, waving a hand, "but it's still the way he thinks about it. He's trying, he really is, but you can't reverse a lifetime of conditioning in a week. You've made some good progress on him though. He respects you."

  From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Ardent blush, but it was hard to tell with her dark skin. "Yes, well, he has more merit than I had previously thought," said the enforcer, the pleased flutter of her mind belying the stiffness of her words. "Perhaps I could come to respect him too, if he can learn to play by our rules. His origin, his nature... They're not important to me. What matters is whether we can work together as equals."

  "Well, I don't know about the equality part when you're basically keeping him like a pet."

  Ardent snorted. "Only for the moment. We have projects for the soldiers to work on, and I'm sure he'll have ideas of his own. This isn't charity, and it's certainly not a prison camp; it is a business, and they'll get paid for what they accomplish. But we won't be asking for services from you or your apprentice. We know you have enough work ahead of you."

  Mako raised her brows at the quick switch of topics, but nodded obligingly. "Some, but Izelina and I can train in mindspace and in dreams as easily as in person, so don't count me out of the magework. At the least, I could set up a scry-watch of the sky to put the question of this eternal night to rest. Anyway, your place here is interesting; I'm looking forward to working together more closely." Then, because she couldn't resist, she added: "So is he."

  This time there was no flutter, just a deliberate nod from the Shadow woman. "Well. We shall see."

  *****

  It didn't take long for feedback to return. Sarovy's men had many questions and a few specific demands. The word had gone out about the sun, and most wanted contact with their families; the foreigner defectors, like Stormfollower's Jernizen and the Brother Islanders, were less interested in news and more in job opportunities and access to women.

  Among the Imperials, some of the Amandic men from the First Infantry platoon just wanted to go home; they had lost too many comrades and all their leaders in the Potter's Row ambush and were still shaken up. Archer-Lieutenant Sengith, also an Amand, thought he could sway them back into the fold, but Sarovy was leery of it. He wouldn't have them bullied, and Sengith's loyalty had been questionable of late.

  The others were a different story. The mages were staying. The twenty-three surviving specialists were staying. So were the Trivesteans, provided Sarovy retained command, and also all the Riddish, unwilling to be shown up by their perpetual rivals. Between Lieutenant Arlin's lukewarm loyalty and Linciard's determined faith, the Wynds had opted to stand with them, but wanted favors for their kin in the form of supply deliveries. Even the Darronwayn and Averognan soldiers, who generally kept their own counsel, had committed themselves in exchange for answers to questions they would not ask through Sarovy.

  With the tally complete, Sarovy had to take a moment to digest it. He'd expected defections from all platoons; they'd been patchwork from the start and now were riddled with the holes of Blaze Company's losses. But with barely a section wishing to leave, and those with good reason…

  They'd chosen to trust him. He couldn't let them down.

  He sent for Enforcer Ardent, then had to wait on her arrival, stifling his nerves and organizing his demands. Once she appeared, he launched into them with barely a preamble, and watched her face for any signal. Only her brows deigned to arch.

  At the end, she pursed her lips briefly, then said, “Acceptable,” and offered her hand in the merchant's way.

  Sarovy hesitated. That gesture unnerved him, as if he was selling his men and himself—and selling them cheap, for how quickly she'd decided. But after a moment, she made a soldier's fist instead, and he managed to reach out and tap it with his own.

  “Done deal,” she said. “Now let's get you that gear.”

  Chapter 8 – Handmade Horrors

  Lark couldn't say she had much confidence in her choices, but she tried to fake it for the sake of her followers. The crowd had grown from a handful to a small horde, bolstered by the pilgrims they met along the White Road—some of whom had still been trying to reach the Palace despite the endless darkness and the fading of the path's own light.

  At first, with Hlacaasteia's bloody glow at her back, she'd felt some urgency, as if at any moment a swarm of haelhene would descend upon her crew and tear them apart. But that hadn't manifested, and the hundred-plus knot of confused and hungry pilgrims now drifted along at a walk—or sometimes a hobble. These were the elders, the late arrivals, the runaways who had tired before they could get far from the falling city. None could maintain much of a pace.

  So it had been a calculated risk to turn down a branch of the road toward a village Lark remembered seeing when she'd been a prisoner. She'd barely managed to glance around the place before, her attention too wired to the conflict at hand: Cob, the Crown Prince, the Field Marshal, the lunatic Archmagus. But she remembered buildings of a sort, which implied shelter, supplies, aid. Some form of help.

  Her advisors—Maevor, the soldier Vysl
in, passively hostile Erevard, and the club-footed woman Yendrah who had raised her voice in Lark's support—could tell her nothing about the villages. Neither could any pilgrim. It troubled her to have no information, but that seemed to be the theme of the Empire's doings: absolute opacity to outsiders. With no priests or experienced White Flames or villagers among their group, Lark just had to guess at what she'd find.

  She well knew it could be nothing, so when they reached the turn-off, she sent the main group straight onward. Her own group would check the village then rejoin when they could. Yendrah would lead the pilgrims because she was loud and no-nonsense; Lark would lead the splinter because, to search, they needed light.

  So it was that Lark found herself cautiously threading between white buildings, the glow from her wraith-crystal their only guide. It was like walking through some strange fungal forest, the curved surfaces like huge puffball mushrooms, or cocoons—for what, she refused to imagine. Beyond the village, the swamp lay low and dark, only the clack of bare branches interrupting the silence. She could almost believe that this place jutted out into the Void.

  The platform felt spongy beneath her slippers, less firm than the road itself. Some of the buildings were unraveling too, though not like in the city; perhaps it was their egg-like shape that kept them stable, or perhaps their small size. A great central dome that might have been a gathering hall lay deflated, its roof fallen in, but the other structures stood fifteen feet high at most, and only a few had slumped.

  She saw no doors, but that was no surprise. Erevard's black blade cut neatly into the first building they tried, its darkness spilling into the material until he'd made a doorway that rotted itself out. The interior, webbed thickly with white strands, held no furniture, no trunks, nothing of use. A man-sized cocoon hung near the ceiling, bent in an uncomfortable curve; Lark had no desire to see what was in it.