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

by H. Anthe Davis

  She remembered running from men like these—fighting them—and wondered what had become of those faceless enemies after the collapse of the Palace. Had they all been like this? Just people, doing an ill-defined job for a mishmash of reasons?

  The Empire hadn't been the monolith she'd thought.

  And now here she was, semi-in charge of about a hundred Imperials, all huddled together on this rotting road while the clouds pulled over them like a sky-high blanket. While the wind kicked a spatter of rain in their faces, and their fires hissed and smoked.

  She was so tired. The texture had gone out of everything, the swamp beyond the road just a dark haze. She wanted to curl up and sleep until the sun returned to wake her, its golden blessing forcing the whole world back to life.

  Her eyelids sank, lulled by that idea. A bed, a pile of quilts, and a window above her, ready to receive the dawn…

  A susurrus went through the trees, then a stronger rustle. She raised her head as anxious murmurs broke out among the crowd. They'd come some distance since escaping the swamp-predators and Kyleen's tree-jumping kin, but no one felt safe here. Danger could come from any side.

  Still, from the mass sway of the trees, it was just the wind. The scent of rain swelled again, making her grimace, but as long as it was just sprinkling—

  Something cold hit her neck, making her jerk. Gasps flickered through the crowd. A raindrop struck the road—and bounced.

  Then the clouds opened. Instinctively Lark covered her head as spikes of cold drove past her braids, only to feel sleet on the backs of her hands and the pings of tiny hailstones rebounding. Cries of alarm went up from the gathered pilgrims; she glanced back just fast enough to see firelight glinting off a wall of sheeting rain, and then it hit.

  Her robe repelled it, but the rest of her could not. Rivulets of ice-water slid down the back of her neck immediately, soaking her underclothes. All around, people were yelling, calling, crying. The torches were out, the fires struggling, the road already awash in tiny flecks of ice.

  Her thoughts froze. She'd discussed this scenario with Yendrah and other pilgrim-leaders a while ago, and they'd come to the conclusion that if the weather turned on them, they were lost. Just lost. There was absolutely nothing here to shelter them.

  Their only chance had been speed, and now it was gone.

  No, no, no! her mind yammered as the sleet invaded her sleeves. We came so far. I won't let it end. I can't! I want Bahlaer and my sunny day!

  Wetness streaked her face. She tried to concentrate past it—past Yendrah's shouts, the White Flames' grim attempts to huddle up, the tearful sounds of the crowd.

  The shadows. Can I open the shadows?

  No. Not enough light to cast one, and even if there had been, this was still the Shadowless Circle. The Kheri would have made contact if they'd managed to extend their reach this far.

  Magic. Some sort of ward?

  She didn't know how to do that. Though she could power the protections on her robe, the method of making them was beyond her, and this wasn't the time to experiment.

  Digging into the road? Using that as shelter?

  No tools. No time.

  Waiting it out. Lighting the fires again once the storm blows over, and drying off.

  The only thing they could do, really. Except that wouldn't help the pilgrims who were already weak and sickly—which was most of them. It wouldn't help if the rain kept coming for marks. Already they were chilled enough that some might die, and it had barely started.

  Call to Ilshenrir. Call with all your strength.

  He wouldn't come. He couldn't. He'd given himself over to the enemy. If he was still alive, he was either a prisoner or a turncoat, and neither of those options helped.

  Call the Grey.

  Her breath caught. She'd traveled through that weird realm four times now, never happily—but it was weatherless. Tepid. The last time she'd been there, she'd already been practicing magic with Ilshenrir, and she'd felt its strangeness all the more keenly. She remembered it.

  And she had Ilshenrir's crystal. If she could concentrate on the feel of the Grey, and push that sensation through the wraith material, maybe…

  “Tie everyone together!” she shouted through the rain and the panic. “Yendrah, guys, everyone, tie yourselves to each other! Sashes and cords! Make sure everyone is part of a single chain! I can get us out of this, but we all need to be connected!”

  Yendrah, already struggling to keep her distraught nephew at her side, looked to her with clear confusion then started shouting her instructions down the line. Talyard did the same on the other end, his white armor running up to cover all but his lower face as he strode out to corral the trailing few.

  Pulling her own sash off, Lark looped it around her wrist and cinched tight, then tossed the other end to Yendrah. Beside her, the soldiers were already working without question, Maevor rising on his knees as Harbett pulled the still-unconscious Vyslin into his lap. Their armor strands linked with minimal effort.

  Inspired, Lark dug her nails into the road material and found that it came up in cords and sheets. “Use the road-stuff too!” she called back, her words echoed by others until the rain drowned them out. Already, dim forms were stumbling closer, trying to huddle up with Yendrah's group and hers.

  She wanted a head-count, but as the sleet thickened, she knew they had no time.

  Teeth chattering, she clutched at the wraith-crystal. If she was wrong—if this wasn't something a human could do—then they would die. If she was right, it still might kill them. There were things in the Grey. But what choice did they have?

  Heaving herself upright, she shouted, “Grab everyone and everything you can! Get as close as possible! Pass the word—we're going imminently!”

  Someone gripped her ankle. Someone else grabbed for her wrist—the wrong one, the one she needed for the crystal. She twisted free and redirected that hand to her robe, then bent to cinch the dangling end of her sash to Yendrah's arm. The Riddishwoman was in the middle of a huddle of her kinfolk now, nephew locked face-first into her bosom, and she glanced up only briefly to grimace through the sleet.

  Lark pulled the crystal free from under her robe, then clenched her hand on it. Talyard was still out there somewhere—hopefully tied in with some little crowd—but if not, he had enough armor. He could probably manage on his own. Her fingers were going numb; she couldn't wait.

  “Grab on!” she shouted. “Grab on, grab on, grab on!”

  Then she concentrated.

  Each time she'd gone into the Grey, it had been effortless, as if the world itself had pushed her. Ilshenrir had said it was the place things ended up when they slipped through the cracks. She focused on that now: from the rolling bank of fog that had taken her from the Corvish heights, to the quicker transition in the Riddish desert. She filled herself with the feel of the place, ignoring the sleet that shellacked her scalp and shoulders and slid down her back.

  The Grey was barren. The Grey was windless, neutral. No scent, no taste, no echo—no sound at all unless the source was close. No shade or darkness; nothing to see in the fog. Endless, empty, everywhere.

  In her hand, the crystal pulsed. Her skin crawled, not from the cold but something deeper, more primal. For a moment, she felt herself flowing into that alien substance—felt the people around her being tugged by it too, a twisted chain of connections all contributing against their will to the drag of the radiant shard.

  Then she sensed it: the slip-spot, the thin veil against her face. She moved forward by instinct and felt the chain of lives try to pull her back—felt the weight of them across her shoulders, clinging to the world. Ignoring their fear, she braced herself and pushed onward with all her might, step by step, until the resistance suddenly broke like a ship losing its mooring.

  Instantly the strength ran out of her like blood. She lost her grip on the crystal and tottered, ears ringing, mouth full of metal. In her chest, her heart fluttered, then stopped.

  *****
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  Whispers.

  Laughter.

  Figures around her, dim and diffuse. All different: tall, petite, narrow, titanic, snakey-necked, stub-limbed—impossible to make out properly. But gathered—gathering, continually—for her. To see her, beckon to her.

  Draw her out from her cell.

  She wasn't afraid; she didn't feel enough to be. Everything was numb, heavy, immobile. She had the vague sense that her eyes were closed, but it didn't impede her view of her visitors. They reached out with hands of varying size, differently fingered—three, four or five per hand, some faintly suggestive of claws. So close they nearly touched her.

  All she had to do was reciprocate, and…

  Dreaming, I'm dreaming, she thought, but that felt wrong. She was too lucid to be asleep. And if she was awake, then what were these…?

  Grey. The Grey. Where things fall through. Where things get lost forever.

  Even souls.

  No. No…

  Had she let go? Had she pushed too far?

  Her limbs were leaden, unresponsive. Her lips wouldn't move. She was breathing—thank the gods!—but nothing obeyed her, and she was alone, abandoned, bereft.

  Except for the things—the creatures—with their waiting hands.

  Is this the underworld?

  Did I—

  Am I—

  *****

  A pain like lightning shocked through her, bending her spine into a tight curve. She gasped, eyes flashing open, and for a moment saw every detail of Maevor's face—each hair, each fleck of sleet, each grimacing line drawn in high relief.

  Then it all blurred, her heart hammering wildly, her eyes running, and she gasped and clutched at the muddled shape he'd become. He pushed her back down, his left hand planted under the neckline of her robe. Registering that, she punched out and heard him grunt.

  “Stop,” he said, and tried to catch her arm.

  She went for his face, still confused, panting. Her nails scraped beard-stubble as he leaned away, then someone pinned her shoulder. Someone else sat on her legs.

  “Just breathe,” he said. “Deep, slow, all right? You're fine. Everything's fine.”

  “Take your hand out!”

  He did, and she felt a twinge as something scraped her breastbone then pulled free of her skin. A bloodied needle slid back into his bracer. She tried to sit up but the world spun her back down. Her head felt like it was being squeezed by a giant.

  Above her, around her, everywhere, hung the faint obscuring mist of the Grey.

  “We made it?” she rasped.

  “They're taking a head-count now.” Maevor looked bad in the low sourceless light, his eyes dark-rimmed, clothes thick with ice. Beyond him, Erevard was barely visible. Glancing back, Lark saw Yendrah's grim face at her shoulder. All else were just shapes in the mist.

  “Don't do that again,” Maevor added. “Your piking heart stopped.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I had to spike you back to life.”

  She tried to shake her head but it just made the giant squeeze tighter. Her lungs felt fist-sized, her heart still battering at her ribs. “I...I had to. We're safe now.”

  “Maybe. Storm's gone but we're still piking frozen.”

  The air on her cheeks felt warm compared to the ice-water that coated her. “Strip, then. Get out of the wet stuff. Get fires started.”

  “We're trying,” said Yendrah. “Everything's soaked though, and we can't let you help.”

  “I can, I'm fine...”

  “Stay down, girl.”

  Her skin tingled, muscles twitching subtly from the aftereffects of whatever Maevor had given her. She felt more awake than she had in a week—more alive—but ridiculously weak, every inch of her body strained. From her collar-line, Ripple coiled up to absorb water and ice-chips from her hair, and she shivered at the cool touch of its substance.

  “Is everyone here?” she managed.

  Maevor didn't answer. Shapes moved in the fog, close enough sometimes to see glimpses of white cloth; now and then, one would lean in and murmur to the bodythief. She squinted after them as they went, noting how they stooped to touch those they passed as if blind, and wondered if they were just being cautious.

  Probably wise, considering those phantoms she'd seen while she was—

  Unconscious. Just unconscious. Or asleep. Dreaming.

  With a shudder, she closed her eyes. Her inner world was still a comforting dark red, her eyelids as solid as they should be. No sign of misty phantoms reaching out.

  Still, her skin prickled.

  She might have slept then. It was hard to tell—all sound muted around her, even her heartbeat dim and distant. The pain ebbed to nothing, and with it her awareness of her body. Unshackled, adrift in a sea of soothing absence...

  A hand gripped her shoulder, shook her. She blinked her eyes open to see the White Flames gathered in a tight crowd at her sides. Vyslin was still out; the others looked wan but well enough.

  “Eighty-three,” said Maevor. “We think. It's hard to be precise.”

  “Eighty-three…?”

  “People here.”

  Her chest tightened. It had been difficult to count them while moving too, but there had been around a hundred. She'd left seventeen or more behind in the sleet-storm.

  Reading her expression, Maevor squeezed her shoulder. “You did what you could. Far more than we could've done without you. So just rest.”

  “Do we have fires yet?”

  He turned away, ostensibly to look for firelight. She squinted up at him, detecting hog-crap even before he spoke. “I haven't heard so.”

  “But people are trying?”

  “The wood won't burn.”

  “Someone had to have dry wood on them, right? The Riddish seemed prepared. Surely they had a few sticks...”

  A moment's silence, then he said, “Yes, but they won't light.”

  “What do you mean?”

  At her other side, Yendrah said, “We've been trying since we got here. Wore some sticks down to nubs already, trying to start a flame, but the stuff doesn't even get hot. Ice isn't melting either. It's not cold but it's not going away.”

  Lark blinked and tried to wedge up on her elbows. Her head swam, but the giant-hand had shrunk to a pair of needles behind her eyes, and after a moment's wait, those became just pins. Turning her head, she saw the dampness that freighted Yendrah's garments, the glimmer of ice-chips in her hair.

  Her own robe was dry—half magic, half Ripple's work. The elemental lay curled in her lap now, larger than before and thick with slush.

  “Not melting at all?” she murmured. She couldn't remember if that had happened the previous times. Had they come through covered in snow and never lost it? Come to think of it, she'd never been able to see this far through the mist before.

  Was it because she'd—

  Shush. Didn't happen.

  —or was it something else? An effect of the sun vanishing, or…

  She touched the wraith-crystal on its cord at her neck. Was it because she'd been the one to pull them through? That made sense, sort of. Ilshenrir had been far more capable of navigating this realm than the rest of their crew, but she didn't know whether that was because of his wraith-nature or because he'd led the way. Perhaps it was both.

  And she'd used a piece of him to pierce the veil.

  She slid it off now, and sat up as best she could. Ripple stirred sluggishly in her lap. She thought she should go down the line using the water elemental to absorb the ice and water still cladding everyone, but wasn't sure she could stand, and doubted Ripple would obey the others.

  Instead, using just a touch of energy, she set the crystal aglow and watched as the mist peeled back slightly from her view.

  Very little showed. A few more tired faces clustered around in all directions, but none who gave any indication of seeing her; no glimpse of misty figures, no sign of trees or structures, no detail to the ground beneath her. Just that flat unnatural n
eutrality, not stone or ice or concrete or earth or anything of the world.

  A part of her craved to know what it was, and why. Wanted to call those diffuse ghosts back to explain themselves, or summon a wraith—any wraith—just to demand explanations. But she understood, dimly, that there might be nothing to know. That all of this could be as much a mystery to those who used it as it was to her.

  Caution told her to put the crystal away, but it was comforting to see further. If wraiths had this kind of natural advantage, she and Arik had been lucky to escape them in the Grey by Hlacaasteia. She still had scabs where he'd bitten her to pull her into the spirit realm.

  She hoped he was all right. And Cob and Das and the others.

  “Trying to signal someone?” Maevor murmured beside her. He'd settled into a knee-hugging position which didn't look too comfortable considering his back, but perhaps kept his threads from stitching him too tight.

  “Just looking,” she said. “I feel fine now. Think I just tired myself out.”

  She could feel him eyeing her, but pretended not to notice. “You didn't tire yourself,” he grated. “It was—“

  “Nothing.”

  “—drawdown.”

  “What?”

  “Drawdown. What happens to mages when they do too much.”

  She shot him a sidelong look. “What do you know? You're not a mage.”

  “I've worked with plenty. Use up all they've got and suddenly they pass right out, thump. Seen it go the other way too—backlash, burnout. Suck up too much energy and cook themselves from the inside. But no, you just went past drawdown into dead-land.”

  She couldn't deny that, so she just glared into the mist.

  “If you start feeling dizzy—“

  “Quit with the crystal, I know, I get the point.”

  “I'm not saying you did bad. No one here is. But we'd kind of like to have you alive to get us out of it.”

  Lark blinked. She'd been so desperate to escape the cold and the sleet that she'd forgotten the other dangerous part of the Grey: exiting it. Namely that she had no idea how it was done.