“I didn't know spirits used magic. Beside him,” Cob replied in an undertone, gesturing toward Enkhaelen.
“They don't. But portals make doorways for many things, not just mages.”
“Weird,” Cob murmured, then tugged his scarf up across his face. Not that he wasn't used to the cold, but going from the near-uncomfortable warmth of the Trifold complex to the bitter chill of this windswept night was a bit of a shock. His layers served him well, but he could have wished for fur like Arik's.
Fortunately their trek ended soon, at the tall entryway to a huge dome-roofed building. The doors opened into an antechamber with another set of doors on the far side, benches and boot-racks lining the walls. There were several trunks as well, latchless, that looked like the sort to hold bedding or personal possessions. Why they would be out here, Cob couldn't guess.
The crowd of ogres clustered up within the chamber, no one moving toward the inner doors until the first set had been closed and barred. Then a collective sigh went out of them, and the one in front knocked heavily on the inner doors and exchanged words with someone beyond.
A bar was drawn, and the doors swung wide into a great pillared chamber smelling of smoke and steam. Rough murals covered the stone walls, showing scenes of sun-warmed rivers and balmy shores. Here and there, inset alcoves held statues of beastfolk and nude figures both well-rounded and lean, all holding their hands out as if offering; below were heavy benches and reclining-beds, urns, braziers and lantern-stands, while the floor was pocked with huge inset basins in which the residents lolled in deep water. No interior panels divided the space; no other doors showed except for a set at the very rear.
The ogress who had let them in was as naked as the rest, vast and ebon-skinned and glinting with water, and Cob looked up at the ceiling to keep from going bright red. No one else seemed to care; the crowd moved to settle along a bench-strewn section of wall with nary a chuckle, Enkhaelen's chatter changing neither tone nor speed.
“Bath-house,” Arik murmured in his ear as they perched on one corner of a bench, a hulking ogre-blood taking up the rest of it. That one was the deep greenish-black of swamp-mud; looking around through squinted eyes, Cob registered a dark rainbow of skin-tones, from true black through greens and browns to reddish-bronze. There was even a chalky grey individual at the far end, watching them through pinkish eyes.
Different coloration for different clans, he remembered. At least, that had been true until their forced exile in the north. Who knew if clans still mattered what with intermarriage between themselves and humans? Not all of the bodies in here were huge and rotund; some were just bulky, more shoulders than belly, clearly marked by human blood.
The smell, though, was deeply ogrish. A mix of musk and earth, not quite swampy but pungent, thick. If the quarters had been closer, it would coat the back of his throat.
Enkhaelen was still talking—still standing, albeit with the help of the cane—and gesturing pointedly with his free hand as he looked from face to tusky face. Cob wondered if he should catch another nap while he could.
Then the massed ogre-bloods rumbled with displeasure, loud and deep enough to give Cob a visceral shock. They hadn't moved from their seats; they weren't threatening, just frowning, all eyes on Enkhaelen as he said something else. His tone had gone sour, lecturing, almost scolding—not good.
“He talks of volcano danger,” murmured Arik. “River floods, hot-spring floods. Fires, earth movements.”
Unease uncurled in Cob's stomach. “How much earth-movement? He said there was jus' gonna be a bit of lava.”
Arik shrugged uncertainly, so Cob turned his glare on Enkhaelen instead. They'd discussed this while waiting: how resetting any of the Seals would trigger a reaction from it that corresponded to its element. An eruption at Aekhaelesgeria, a channeling event—whatever that was—at Howling Spire, wild growth at Du'i Oensha, a great wave at the Pillar of the Sea. A Riftquake at Varaku.
But the windstorm at the Hag's Needles hadn't felt like much. Cob had been basing his expectation of danger on that, and comparing it against his memory of the original Seals and their disasters. For Enkhaelen to be warning these people about floods, landslides, fires…
He gritted his teeth. This wasn't the time to stand up and confront the man, not when his audience had settled back into doubtful listening.
After what felt like marks but was probably only a half, Enkhaelen broke off his diatribe and turned the discussion over to the ogres. There was more talk, so thoroughly tusk-garbled that Cob couldn't follow a word, then the crowd seemed to come to some abrupt agreement and rose from their benches again. Cob and Arik followed suit, cutting cautiously through the mob to stay close to Enkhaelen, and soon found themselves back at the main door. Some of the ogres bowed there but stayed; others escorted them into the antechamber, waited until the main doors were barred, then opened the entrance for them.
The chill wind burnished Cob's cheeks, and he pulled his scarf back up. Going in and out of warm places was not helping him acclimate to the cold.
“What's with all the doors?” he muttered to Arik as they turned toward the lightless stone structure where they had started.
“To know if the Graces are around,” gruffed the wolfman. “If the lamps go out or cannot be lit, a Grace is near. Maybe with you. They can stay unseen.”
“Invisible?”
“Aversive—too scary to look at. Sometimes without you knowing you are scared.”
Cob shuddered.
They reached the structure and all the ogre-bloods halted. In the thin moonlight, it looked similar to the buildings down below, but larger: twenty feet or more to the roof-line, the curve of its dome rising even higher. He couldn't tell what it was meant to be—a temple? a gathering hall?—just that it wasn't in use right now. A narrow path ran alongside it, braced and defined by timbers, then continued on up through ascending ranks of snow-cloaked trees.
Beyond those trees rose saw-toothed mountains, silhouetted blackly against the starry Chain of Ydgys. They were already standing among the Khaeleokiels, with rough ridges rising on either side of the ogrish valley, but those ahead looked like taller, proper mountains. One of them might be the target, Aekhaelesgeria.
Still, they were miles and miles away. He didn't know much about volcanoes—the Thundercloaks weren't active—but he couldn't imagine the fire could reach so far, especially with so much snow and ice around. Floodwaters, certainly, but flames?
“Ready?” said Enkhaelen as the last of the ogres peeled away from them. He had moved to the foot of the ascending path, cane braced on the first step, lantern in his other hand. In the thin moonlight his face looked white against the dark fall of his hair.
“Pull up y'hood,” Cob told him.
“Who do you think you are, my mother?”
“If y'wear out all your energy and make y'self pass out, then I guess so, yeah.”
“I am the father,” said Arik proudly.
Enkhaelen snorted, but tugged his scarf up and adjusted his hood. “No, my father was much more like Cob. With a beard, though. Get on that, Cobby.”
It wasn't the worst pet-name Cob'd had, and he knew objecting would just encourage Enkhaelen. There was a vein of gleeful spite in the man that he would rather not test. “Can't,” he mumbled, falling into step as Enkhaelen started up the path. “Think the Guardian stopped m'facial hair from growin'.”
Enkhaelen's laugh crackled through the night like breaking ice. “Really? I hope you wanted that.”
“Saves me the razor work, I guess.”
“If you ever want it back, I can take a look.”
“No, s'fine.”
“I won't hurt you, I promise.”
He sounded too amused to trust, so Cob just mumbled noncommittally.
They traveled in silence a while, the trees thickening as the ogres' community fell behind. In the deep stillness of the night, Cob thought he heard water rushing, but it had to be at a distance; the path angled up toward a ridge-
line, not down to the valley's cleft, and the forest seemed both wide and deep. There was nothing else on the wind: no bird-chatter, no scratching of night-creatures along the bark or ice. Just the crunch of their footfalls on the path.
He watched Enkhaelen's back closely. He couldn't fault the man for walking, even though it probably sapped him to the bone. They'd been cooped up in the Trifold temple for days; this perhaps gave back a measure of dignity.
Until he keeled over and had to be carried again.
“So...we're gonna wake up the volcano?” Cob asked his back.
“Not purposefully, but I'm sure it will be a side-effect.”
“You're stronger now. Y'can't prevent it?”
“Not even at my best. Fire-blood and Ravager influence only extend so far.”
“And the Seal… Y'can't reset it gently?”
“It's not an option, no.”
“That village, though, they didn't seem too fussed.”
"They say they've weathered eruptions before." His tone was dry, dismissive.
Cob glanced to the tree-clad ridges again and frowned, thinking of landslides. “But the Sealin' was a long time ago. Maybe before they came here. What if it's that bad?”
“Mm.”
“I'm askin', what if it is?”
“Well then, they'll have a problem, won't they?”
In Cob's memory, the mountains cracked and the Pillar of the Sea plunged through rock and sand. The dark wave towered high as a summit, its foam a knife's edge against the red sky. “It cracked the world last time. Broke off a piece of the continent. What'd it do up here?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“Yes you would. You—“
“Even if I'd witnessed it, it won't be the same. Reseating the Seal isn't as dangerous as creating it, and I've handled this volcano before. This will be my third visit.”
“You jus' said you can't—“
“Prevent it, no, but I can manage it somewhat. I think.”
“You think.”
“More than you do.”
Now he was wearing that obnoxious sly smile; Cob could hear it in his tone. Anger rose in his chest, spurred not just by this but by the months spent stumbling in his destructive wake. Everywhere he went, death and mayhem ensued, and it seemed this would be no different.
“It's not funny,” he snapped. “If we pike this up—maybe even if we do this right—those people are gonna die. Did you tell them that? Did you explain how pikin' dangerous this is?”
“I mentioned it. It's not my fault if they don't listen.”
“Did you tell 'em that this's gonna be another Sealin' Disaster?”
“I didn't go that far.”
“Then we're goin' back and tellin' them!”
Enkhaelen stopped on an upper step and turned, and Cob flinched as the lantern's beam fell over him. Ice laced the necromancer's voice as he said, “You could have said it yourself, before, and you did nothing. We are not backtracking.”
“I trusted you t'warn them!”
“Why in the world would you do that?”
“You—“
“Cob, dear child, do you honestly think I care? They can thrive or burn, it doesn't matter. I told them the facts and they dismissed them. I'm not returning to throw scary shadows on their walls in the hope of running them out of town.”
“It's not enough!”
“If you think so, then why don't you go? Oh wait, you've lost the Guardian, so you can't even speak the tongue.”
Cob took a step toward Enkhaelen and felt a furry hand clamp on his shoulder. He glanced back to see Arik's ears pressed flat, the whites showing around the blue of his eyes. It took Cob a moment to register that he'd clenched his fists and bared his own teeth—that he was planning violence.
He tried to let it go, to push the rage back down the well with all his other bad thoughts.
“Not much use without a rider, are you?”
He was almost in Enkhaelen's face when Arik caught him that time, both arms locking around his waist to pull him back. His feet left the steps and he kicked out viciously, catching the lantern hard enough to knock it from the necromancer's hand. It hit the ground with a crunch, oil and glass spilling free to illuminate their little scrap of forest.
“You shit!” he shouted, heedless of the flames. “You pulled it outta me! You made it necessary in the first place! All of this is your fault!”
“Well yes, obviously,” said Enkhaelen. “I just decline to feel bad about it.”
“Put me down, Arik!”
“So you can do what, pummel me?” Enkhaelen made a gesture over the spilling lantern, which immediately leapt back into his hand, the oil following like a burning snake. The glass pursued it a moment later, reassembling like a transparent jigsaw puzzle. “I fail to see how that solves anything.”
“It'll make me feel better!”
“Do you recall that thing I did when I was angry, to make me feel better?”
Cob snarled at Enkhaelen's patronizing tone. “Yeah, killed probably thousands of people. All I'm gonna do is punch you in your smug face!”
“And then?”
“—What?”
“What will you do after you punch me, Cob? Kick me, maybe? Stomp back down the path to yell at people who don't understand and won't be impressed even if you're translated? I told them, very clearly, what I expected would happen. I even told them who I am, but it didn't seem to matter. The Ravager has become as much a legend as the Firebird is. Four hundred years, Cob, of neither myself nor the Guardian taking an active part in the world except to scuffle with each other, and now the people no longer care what we think.”
Confused, Cob ceased struggling, and Arik set him on his feet again. “But...what?” he said. “The Guardian isn't a legend. People recognized her when she spoke through me. They have to remember you—respect you.”
“Do they? Why? I vanished. Even before my imprisonment, I had become obscure. You've been traveling with people in the know, Cob; Gwydren Greymark was the first to find you on the road, and then it was me. You fell in with Trifolders, Shadow Folk, skinchangers—all people who've preserved the old knowledge. But the bulk of humanity, the bulk of the world, has moved on from us. They worship gods instead of spirits; they live in cities instead of clan-holds. Even here in the backwoods, we barely matter. We are power without purpose. Parents whose children have grown beyond us.”
Cob blinked, surprised by the weariness in the words. “Is that why you wanted t'die?”
Narrow shoulders twitched in a shrug; lamp-light gleamed on cold-fire eyes. “I missed the death of my era by over two hundred years. By the time Aradys let me out for the experiments, the Empire was well-established. Old Ruen Wyn was gone, and with her old Altaera, which had killed her. Everything had changed. There were no shamans anymore—not in the Heartlands. No great Trifold temples to direct my rage at either. No memory left of my family, my lineage, except the scraps and fancies that had become mythology. It's been a hundred years and more since then. So why should I care?”
There was an emotion wrapped inside that callous query; Cob could hear it, but he didn't know what it was. It kept him from the obvious rejoinders: For your daughter. For the world. Because you started this, you dick.
“There's really nothin' you can do?” he asked instead.
Enkhaelen smirked. “Oh, I could burn them out, I suppose. Even stone houses will give way at certain temperatures. But that would be a large expenditure of energy, and I doubt you'd be pleased with me.”
“No.”
“So. Chained by our skills and histories. Shall we move on?”
Cob looked back past Arik's bulk to the glimmer of lights below. How many would be snuffed out by the eruption? How many would leave if he told them to?
How many would laugh?
“I don't like this,” he said.
“Good. You shouldn't. But feelings won't fix anything. Sometimes there is no better way.”
With that, Enkhaelen's
cane struck down, and he propelled himself up another step. The lantern's light flared and flickered as he moved, casting dancing shadows among the trees. Watching his back, Cob wondered how many times he'd done something like this: gone forward on a horrible course of action because there seemed to be no other path. It went a distance toward explaining the man, not that he'd ever wanted to know.
Then Arik nudged him, and he set forth—discomfited, regretful—at Enkhaelen's heels.
*****
The moon rose and declined in a slow silver arc. As it neared the end of its transit, the golden child moon came scudding up from the east in pursuit, quick as its mother was stately. Its nearly-full face cast a second shade upon the shadows of the forest.
Enkhaelen had long since sagged in his tracks, sharp tongue silenced by the cold. Arik carried him now, and Cob bore the lantern and silver sword. The going was rough; the pathway had petered out several marks ago, leaving them to pick their way around rockfalls and over craggy roots, across frozen streams, through ice-dense undergrowth. The air had taken on an indescribable taste Cob recalled from his youth, like he'd been transported from the Khaeleokiels to the Thundercloaks in half a step.
These peaks weren't nearly as tall as his home range. In High Country Kerrindryr, they tore gaps in the clouds; here, the clouds hung higher, backlit by the glow of the moons. Still, he felt his breath coming thinner, lungs swelling with the need to draw in more. It had been a while since he'd really filled them.
Arik followed without complaint or comment. There wasn't much need. Cob knew their destination; Enkhaelen had pointed out the peak and he was careful to keep it in sight, or else wait and judge against the clouds if he thought he'd lost it. Most of the mountains in this range were sharp-pointed, but that one looked like it'd had its tip snipped off. Easy.
They rested periodically in what shelter they could find. With no day and no true night, there was no need to keep a schedule; when they were tired, they sat, and when they were cold, they built a little fire. The Trifolders had provisioned them for several days, with flatbread and strips of dried squash and root-vegetables for Cob, sausages for Arik, and cheese for Enkhaelen. They also had four flasks of lamp oil, either for fuel or to wake Enkhaelen up.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 39
