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

by H. Anthe Davis

  Sister Talla cast him a hard look, then turned her gaze to the floating mass. “And that? You removed everything?”

  “I dissected as finely as I could. Give me a moment and I will do away with that too.”

  Cob stood waiting as he ran the rest of his tools between his fingers, all traces of residue searing away at his white-hot touch. The metal was still warm as he passed them over. With only a vague idea of which slot everything went into, Cob did his best, but no criticism came; Enkhaelen's attention remained on Aglavyn and the fleshy mass.

  Once the case clicked shut, he shook back his sleeves and beckoned at the mass. It floated to his hands, a ghastly conglomerate of tumors and cysts, and Cob heard Sister Talla hiss through her teeth as the necromancer gripped it. What she thought he would do, Cob couldn't guess—didn't want to.

  Firelight rolled down Enkhaelen's arms to encapsulate the mass in a bright white sphere. A whiff of foul smoke hit Cob's nostrils only to dissipate as the ward locked tight. With a noise of effort, Enkhaelen compressed the sphere between his palms, its radiance intensifying with every shrinking inch until it lit the room like noon-time.

  Then, slowly, the light began to ebb, the color warming through yellow to dull angry red and finally to nothing at all. As the ward unlocked, the remains fell into Enkhaelen's palm: a charcoal-colored lump the size of a marble.

  For a moment, Cob had the awful feeling he would eat it.

  Instead he just palmed it, and grasped the free-standing cane with his other hand. “Unless there is something else, you'll have to excuse me. I need to lie down.”

  The gathered Trifolders cleared a path for him, murmuring amongst themselves. Cob moved to help him down the steps but was waved off again, so just followed with the case as he hobbled into the hallway and toward their room. Effigies fell into step all around them, enough to put Cob's hackles up.

  But none attacked or interfered, and at the doorway Arik stood holding the curtain back, wolfish ears canted forward in curiosity. None followed them in, just lingered outside the opening as Enkhaelen made a beeline for the bed and flopped onto it face-first.

  “Uh, thanks,” Cob told them just to be polite, then tugged the curtain shut.

  “Success?” said Arik, leaning in to sniff him.

  “I think so. Enkhaelen?”

  “Gnnrf.”

  “You, uh... Y'need anythin'?”

  “Mrgh.”

  “Guess that's a no.”

  He put the case back where he'd found it and, after a while of staring at the collapsed necromancer, dared to rescue the cane. Enkhaelen made a vague aggrieved sound but didn't twitch, so he risked it again to pull the blanket over the little man.

  Enkhaelen burrowed deeper into the bedding. Silence fell.

  To Arik's questioning look, Cob could only shrug. He didn't understand much of what had happened, nor did he wish to disturb the necromancer. Instead, he sat down against the wall by the door to listen to the faint noises coming from the altar chamber: the remaining priestesses and militant sisters deep in conversation. Though he couldn't make the words out, the mood seemed positive; once or twice, he heard laughter.

  And always the heavy tread of the effigies in the hall, as if on patrol.

  *****

  Enkhaelen slept for almost a day. In that time, no less than twenty priestesses and acolytes peeked in, only to blush or recoil and excuse themselves when they found Cob and Arik watching. Though bored out of his mind, Cob found that amusing.

  Sister Talla hadn't returned, which Cob figured was a good sign; Aglavyn was probably taking up all of her time. As anxious as he was about the effigies and the lack of Fiora, he was glad they'd come here. One less weight on his conscience.

  Still, he itched to leave. They had five Seals to replace, one of them in his old homeland, and the longer he sat here thinking about it, the more desperate he became to get it done. For the world, yes, to bring back the sun if it could, but also so he could stop worrying about it.

  He and Arik had exhausted their conversation skills. They both longed to be up top and running free, breathing cold clear air instead of the incense-laden heat down here—making progress toward their goal instead of chewing their nails and replaying the past.

  Finally, so plagued by ennui that it had circled around to become courage, Cob reached out for the red thread that connected him to Fiora. Or rather, to their baby.

  It wasn't there.

  Stark terror snapped him upright. He hadn't felt for it in days, mostly due to a dim sense that he was intruding on her. They hadn't parted on good terms, and he doubted she'd appreciate his snooping—especially through a child she hadn't wanted.

  But with it gone…

  “What?” said Arik, staring up at him from the floor, but he couldn't put together the words to explain—wasn't even sure he could control his tongue right now. His heart hammered against his ribs, mind's eye replaying his last vision of her over and over: her turning away to leave the Palace with the Prince.

  “Cob?”

  “I… I...”

  Complex thought no longer existed. Dazed, panicked, he did something he would never have done otherwise: he stumbled to the bed and shook Enkhaelen vigorously.

  The necromancer came awake flailing, still face-down. Cob tried to pull him up only to get backhanded with a pillow, then kicked several times in the legs. He stepped away enough to avoid the next pillow-swipe, but not the force that nearly slapped him off his feet.

  “Wait, wait!” he shouted as he staggered into the wall. Arik was up too, ears flattened, but not looking at him or Enkhaelen, and from the corner of his eye he saw the curtain draw back, an effigy staring in. “Go away,” he snapped at it, then took a moment to steady himself.

  The effigy's baleful gaze swept the room, then retreated. On the bed, Enkhaelen sat like a frazzled owl, blinking rapidly, the pillow beginning to smoulder in his grip.

  “Stop with the fire,” Cob told him, prompting a curse as he noticed the damage. The combustion stopped immediately, leaving a scorched hand-print on the fabric.

  “What in the name of pikes was that about?” mumbled the necromancer.

  “I'm sorry, I...” Cob ran a hand over his hair, which he'd tied back for the first time in years, it having gotten too long and shaggy to let hang. It was a weird feeling. “I reached for the thread and it wasn't there and I panicked.”

  Enkhaelen blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “The thread, the connection,” he tried more slowly. There was no room to pace here, not like his legs were demanding, so he settled for rocking from foot to foot as he grasped for words. “With Fiora and m' kid, the one I got from the Guardian. It's not there anymore. Does that—“

  “Cob.”

  “—mean they're dead, or in some other realm, or—“

  “Cob.”

  “You have t'know, right? Y'can trace them somehow, right?”

  “Cob, Cob, Cobbity Cob. Shut up and sit down.”

  He did, right there on the floor where he'd stood. With a sigh, Enkhaelen shifted himself into a proper sitting position, then stared, eyes losing focus as if seeing through him. For a long moment, he said nothing, and Cob opened his mouth to ask.

  “Silence,” Enkhaelen snapped.

  Another span passed. Then he said, “Reach for it however you usually do.”

  Cob tried. It was like reaching for something in the dark—something he knew should be there but inexplicably wasn't. Just the act made his eyes water.

  Enkhaelen's expression went thoughtful. “Well, I can tell you two things. First, the connection wasn't cut. Second, the Guardian's residue is gone from you.”

  Glancing down as if he might see it too, Cob said, “What does that mean?”

  “You can't sense them because the sense itself is gone. If I were to guess, I'd say that being in this place with its pervasive Trifold emanations has washed away what few traces the Guardian left on you. Really, it's a surprise they lingered as long as they di
d.”

  “So...they're all right? Wherever they are?”

  “I have no way to tell that—and neither do you. Best to not dwell on it.”

  “How'm I supposed t'not—“

  “Focus on something else, for pike's sake. That's what I do.”

  Cob eyed him, then looked around at their minimal baggage. It wouldn't take more than a few moments to throw everything together and go. “Y'feel ready t' leave?”

  “What? I just woke up!”

  “Y'seem coherent.”

  “Coherency is not the issue!” Clutching the blankets about himself defensively, Enkhaelen glared and added, “You're not even wearing your boots.”

  “They don't fit. Anyway, I don't need—“

  “Yes you do, now that the Guardian's gone. Or would you rather I trim your toes off the first time you get frostbite?”

  Cob looked down at his bare feet. He didn't want to wear his boots. It felt as alien a concept now as running barefoot through thorn and snow had felt before this whole escapade. “Y'can't show me how t' jus'...do Guardian-type stuff on my own? I mean, y'showed me some magic...”

  “Yes, I could—except that the Guardian still wants to kill me and all the other spirits you resonate with are my anathema. So can we not do that, and just get you a pair of boots?”

  Though scowling, Cob forced himself to nod. “So if I go get boots and supplies and all that stuff, can we go? Are y'well enough?”

  Enkhaelen made a face, but slowly extended his legs off the edge of the bed, stretching his heel-tendons and flexing his toes. “I suppose,” he said after a moment. “Regular exercise is all I really need at this point, to bring the muscles back into condition. Not that I'll get it with you carrying me around through the cold.”

  “The sooner we go—“

  “Yes, yes. Get us supplied then, before the Trifolders' hospitality wears out.”

  With a nod, Cob hustled out from the chamber to go find someone in charge. He knew a few of the human guards and priestesses by name now, so asked the first one he encountered—the male Breanan from before, Berent—and soon found himself escorted into the upper level, through old familiar chambers, to the main altar-room where he had first touched the Dark.

  It gave him a little shiver to see nothing changed: the walls still covered in their displays of broken relics, the altar draped in its red and brown and grey cloths, the floor coated in woven mats and dotted with the kneeling faithful. Even the cushions by the base of the dais remained, though they had been added to and rearranged to let Mother Matriarch Aglavyn recline comfortably rather than sit.

  Acting Mother Matriarch Varya sat on one side of her, Sister Talla on the other, each clasping one of her hands. Other priestesses and a few forgers sat in a circle around them, heads bowed, murmuring soft prayers. By the light of the myriad candles and lamps, Cob was relieved to see a healthy flush on the true Matriarch's cheeks, and the slow movement of her lips as she echoed the prayers.

  All eyes turned toward him as he followed his guide to the edge of the circle. Even Aglavyn's, milk-white, sought him unerringly. “My apologies, but our guests request supplies and permission to depart,” said Berent with a little bow. “You asked to be informed when the time came.”

  “Yes,” said Acting Matriarch Varya, releasing Aglavyn's hand to rise. Her gaze skimmed Cob critically, and he frowned; he was already wearing Trifold-given clothes, excepting his lack of footwear, so he couldn't guess what she was thinking. “Yes, of course. The weather has taken an odd turn, so they'll need oilskins and high boots, and wooden sandals for the beastman. Sufficient food and fuel, and...what path do you plan to take?”

  “Um,” said Cob. “We don't have a map, but I figured we jus' follow the rise of the land into the mountains, then go to the one that's a volcano...” Someone in the crowd giggled, and he flushed. It had seemed a much better plan before he'd voiced it.

  “I doubt that anyone has a good map of the Khaeleokiels,” Varya said comfortingly. “It is Corvish territory, and they guard their secrets fiercely. Alas, we have very little contact with them. Do you plan to go up from the Wyndish side or the Darronwayn?”

  “Uh. Which is quicker?”

  “Starting from here, most likely the Wyndish route. The roads into Darronwy are treacherous in the winter. Hmm, but Darronwy's network of high villages runs far into the mountains, unlike Wyndon which barely reaches the foothills, and the people would be more sympathetic to your cause. We have our own temples there, in the heights.”

  Vriene and Sogan Damiel had been Darronwayn. He remembered that.

  “And we could ask the Shadow Folk to give you passage,” said another priestess. “They carry supplies and messages for us all the time. Not people very often, but it has happened.”

  Cob shuddered at the thought of the Shadow Realm. He'd been through it before but couldn't remember anything beyond a seething darkness. Granted, he'd been dazed the first time and unconscious the second, but it still put his hackles up. And to subject Enkhaelen to that…

  “I don't think it's a good idea,” he said. Then blinked. “Unless y'could have 'em take somethin' over there, these things called portal-stakes, and jus' stick 'em in the ground for us...”

  “I doubt that would be a problem.”

  “Gettin' them as close to Aekhaelesgeria as y'can would cut days and days off our travel,” he mused. “Yeah, if you'd do us that favor… What d'we owe you?”

  The Acting Matriarch opened her mouth, but it was Aglavyn who spoke, her reedy whisper silencing the murmurs of the room. “Enkhaelen,” she said, white eyes pinning him. “Keep him safe and under control. We tried, and failed, too many times. We should not intrude upon him again. But you have his trust. You must use it to ensure that he never becomes the Child by Fire we fear.”

  An anxious ripple went through the gathering, but no one spoke up. Irritated and a bit uneasy, Cob said, “What's that prophecy anyway? Enkhaelen says it's hog— It's made up.”

  “We are no longer permitted to study it,” said Aglavyn. “After the last incident with him, it was decided that we could not trust our interpretation of the text. We had tried to prevent the Child's rise, only to trigger a catastrophe through our persecution—and so we locked it away, lest it inspire more strife. None now alive know the specifics of its predictions, and we take action to squelch any rumors of a new Child—but you understand how Enkhaelen's return affects us.”

  Cob nodded slowly. “So when y'say to keep him from becomin' that...you jus' want me to have him on a leash.”

  “Inasmuch as you can. You clearly have some influence with him, and you have a good heart. Endeavor to steer by it, and to drag him with you for as long as you can.”

  Doom myself to a lifetime of herding that maniac around?

  For his own mistakes, Cob figured it was about what he deserved.

  “Right,” he said, resigning himself to it. “If you'd use your influence then, and deliver the stakes up the mountains, give us enough t'live on for the trip, it's much appreciated. I'm sorry for imposin' so much, and for what happened last time, and I'm really glad you're feelin' better.”

  Aglavyn smiled faintly and beckoned for him to approach. Cautiously he did so, picking his way through the circle of priestesses to kneel before her and let her clasp his hand. Though bony, her fingers were warm, comforting, and he felt a prickle at the corners of his eyes. That lost sense of family.

  “You did well to bring him here,” she said softly. “Not only for me, but for the wounded heart of our faith and, hopefully, for him. We have had a troubled history, but we always meant well. That is the shame of it. We wanted to be so much better than we were.

  “I am glad for what happened. Glad to have helped you, and to be helped in return—to have given him the opportunity to reach out. Please thank him for me. My dear Talla will never say it, but she is grateful as well. Express that to him. We must not let old wounds fester any longer.”

  He could imagine Enkhaelen's de
rision when he heard this. But then maybe his estimation of the man was wrong. “I will.”

  “As for Sister Fiora, we pray for her safe return. Alas, it is all we can do.”

  “If she— When she gets here, tell her...” He swallowed thickly, struggling to find the words to encapsulate the turmoil in his heart. Nothing came that wouldn't sound needy or maudlin, so he just said, “Tell her we were worried, and we'll be back. I'll be back. If I can.”

  “You are always welcome here.”

  He believed it. Not with Varya in charge; she seemed nice enough but he'd spent these past few days feeling like he was in a spacious cage, allowed to roam yet constantly monitored. Aglavyn, though, radiated a benevolence that dissolved such barriers. At her side, even Sister Talla seemed less harsh, more accepting.

  He felt better for having come here.

  “Thanks,” he murmured. “I should let y'get back t'your prayers, then. Tell Enkhaelen what's goin' on. I'm sure he'd say thanks too.”

  “Tell him that once his outside business is finished, we should speak. He and I and Gwydren Greymark. It is long past time.”

  “I will.”

  She released him then, and he rose and bowed to her with all the grace he could muster. Her smile was like sunlight, and his heart clenched as a memory of his mother Liska struck: her figure emerging from the dark cave into a cool spring morning, the first smile of the season cracking the placid ice of her mien. For a moment, he missed her more than anything.

  Then he collected himself and carefully passed back through the prayer circle to where Brother Berent stood waiting. The man flashed him a sympathetic smile and turned wordlessly, leading him back into the depths.

  *****

  Some time later, with supplies packed and oilskins slung over their new layers of knitwear, Cob, Arik and Enkhaelen sat staring at the two portal-stakes in the middle of the floor. They'd sent the attached pair away with a shadowblood woman, who'd grimaced at the runes and wrapped them in black cloth, then estimated several marks before they would be planted.

  At Enkhaelen's request, their target location had changed from upper Darronwy to a village in the heights of Gejara, north of the Khaeleokiel range. According to him, it was the closest point of civilization to the volcano itself—one that the Trifold had no experience with, but the Shadow Folk knew. Cob accepted that. The closer, the better.