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

by H. Anthe Davis

  All the ones that had served him in the Crimson Army were dead. All those at the Palace or among the other armies were unreachable—if not also dead. It was entirely possible that he had outlived his whole order.

  Still, he was a soldier as much as a priest, so he had to be pragmatic. When the Light returned, he would tear this false eye from his head—and gladly, for the visions it showed him were near-incomprehensible. Until then, he would endeavor to learn from them. Probabilities, Caernahon had called them, arrayed across the future like kaleidoscope variants, with the brightest the most likely and the dimmest nearly impossible.

  Headaches were more like it. He didn't see the visions often, but it didn't seem to matter whether his eye was covered or not; it would still fill his sight with scenes of tragedy and triumph, revolution and retribution, dominance and defeat and deadlock in all shades of potentiality. It didn't respond to his will either, ignoring his attempts to further examine certain visions—like those prophesying the destruction of the Crimson camp.

  At least it had alerted him to that crow-assault. And it had a secondary use: he could see the weave of magic now, whether in Caernahon's work or the specialists' illusions. Still couldn't see through them, but he could tell when something wasn't as it seemed.

  Cold comfort for all the bad news he'd been getting. His Daecian agents had finally reported in, only to say that there was no Daecia anymore: all the villages had withered, the populace dead in their cocoons, the Imperial City claimed by haelhene and the swamp by rogue rovagi. That had sparked a shouting match between himself and Caernahon, still unresolved; he wanted the Palace put back in his army's hands, but the wraith-lord wouldn't budge.

  There was still no word from the Inquisition and only terse responses from the Sapphire and Gold Armies. He'd tried to schedule a meeting of the kings and regents but half of them were unreachable by scry and the other half were no help. Garlan of Wyndon was up to his ears in riots, Lagurnath of Averogne politely indifferent, Dantane of Darronwy openly hostile. At least that hadn't changed.

  That Sapphire General Demathry had not deigned to speak to him personally made him angrier than he could articulate. If he hadn't been bogged down in half a dozen cities and border camps, he would have declared war.

  He still might, once these test subjects recovered.

  Rank upon rank of them lay beneath thin blankets, sweating and babbling as the red Hlacaasteian shards hitched into their armor and nerves. They were all White Flames: his crippled soldiers, soon to stand strong again.

  Caernahon had done a lot in four days; he acknowledged that. Still, the slow progress grated on him. “You could have spared more of your fleshcrafters for this,” he told Caernahon's back. “All that talk of your knowledge and talent, your Akarridi experiments and your crossbred slave-race, and yet—“

  “Decide what you want, Rackmar,” said Caernahon wearily, raising his hand again from his subject's face. “Swift work on these implants? Support for your defenses? Portal-makers to ensure that your pawns can move to your whims? You cannot have the best of all things. Strengthening one weakens the other, and if you press me further, I shall retract them all. I am not Enkhaelen. I will not be bullied.”

  “For the sake of the Light—“

  “That is your concern, not mine. My interest extends far beyond this cage of a world. If you push me, I will leave you to your fate.”

  Rackmar bit his tongue, knowing only foulness would spill out. Arguing with Caernahon had never brought him satisfaction; there was simply no leverage he could bring against the wraith. He detested being forced to ask, when with all other so-called allies he had always been able to take.

  The bang of the infirmary door interrupted his reply. Narrow-eyed, he looked back to see a haggard handful of figures troop in, so soot- and mud-stained that it was impossible to identify them. Only the camp mage in the lead alerted him to the fact that this was something of import, for she knew better than to approach him otherwise.

  “Field Marshal, sir,” she said as she drew close, face pinched and hands worrying at her robe-sleeves, “a report from the teams sent to Aekhaelesgeria.”

  Frowning, Rackmar turned to face them fully, and glimpsed white at the corner of his eye as Caernahon did the same. “Speak,” he intoned, squinting at the bulkiest of the mud-streaked men, who saluted with a rasp of grit on armor.

  “Field Marshal, I am Major Daylin of Howling Brigade Ninth Battalion, assigned to—“

  “Yes, just report.”

  The man, a heavily bearded Wynd beneath the caked-on filth, swallowed and said, “Sir, the mountain erupted. Two marks ago, maybe three, I'm not sure. My forces were en route to it, maybe ten miles out—we'd been told to watch the Gejaran side on a spy's tip, but not to be on the mountain itself. That from the wraiths, sir.”

  Rackmar glanced to Caernahon, annoyed. He'd left the portal-work to the haelhene, with the understanding that they would fly to the mountain and let his troops in to bar Enkhaelen's way. “Where were you brought across?”

  “About thirty miles out, sir. Some forested nothing-site. Soon as the wraiths flew off, there were piking Corvish on us, shooting from the trees and hills. Didn't cause much damage but delayed us, and then there was some kind of animal stampede—deer, kysheer, foxes, snow-boars—just running at us, through us, like they didn't care at all. Happened twice actually, just this tide of beasts—“

  “The mountain, major.”

  “Sir. Ten miles out, I'd just assigned quadrants and sent the companies off when everything started shaking. And then it just… It blew, sir. I've heard the old stories but I swear the top of the mountain just blew off. These rocks started coming down and then this smoke-cloud— There'd been a column of it, smoke and flame, but then the column just collapsed, rolled down, and two of the companies were down in the valleys, and—“

  The major's eyes glazed over. Before Rackmar could snap, the grubby aide beside him said, “No way we could get close, Field Marshal sir, and since we'd obviously missed our target, we withdrew. Saw the wraiths fighting some burning bird, but they flew off past the smoke and we lost them. The eruption's still going; we only got out because they came to find us.”

  Rackmar followed the man's nod to the final three members of the group, then blinked. Two were the most bedraggled haelhene he had ever seen, their masks gone and robes in burnt tatters, sexless noduled bodies almost lost beneath the plastered mud. The third was a tall, darkly imperious woman who paid no attention to the proceedings, instead picking grit from her metallic right arm as her silver-streaked black hair diligently combed itself.

  “Who is this?” Rackmar demanded, gesturing at her. “Some foreign mercenary? A Gejaran spy?”

  “My protege,” Caernahon intoned icily. “Mariss, do explain.”

  The dark woman raised her brows. “Not much to report, Master. He took some subterranean route and then just ran out and slapped the Seal down. The volcano erupted right then, and the explosion knocked me into a mountainside. By the time I shook it off, he'd struck everyone else down and vanished. There was nothing left to do but rescue the soldiers.”

  Her off-hand recital stoked Rackmar's anger to a boil. Rounding on Caernahon, he roared, “This! This is how you handle him? All your power, all your visions, and he just runs by under your noses?”

  In his false old-man face, Caernahon's eyes narrowed. “I warn you, modulate your tone.”

  “My tone? Your carelessness has lost me soldiers, sparked a catastrophe, and allowed Enkhaelen to escape!”

  “I did not ask for your soldiers, only your spies. I am not responsible for men you foisted upon me.”

  “So you just dropped them in the woods?”

  “They were unnecessary. I told my subordinates to keep them out of the way.”

  “And then you piking lost him, so what piking good are you!”

  A derisive snort came from the woman, and he wheeled to meet her sea-green stare. Despite their tropical color, those eyes were
deadly cold. “I don't see the use of this ranting toad, Master,” she said calmly. “Nor any of his peons. In fact, without the distraction of their presence, we would have had all eyes dedicated to the search. Assuredly we would have found him.”

  “Assuredly,” Rackmar sneered back. There was something about the set of her jaw, the angle of her cheekbones, that reminded him of—

  “Thank you, Mariss, that will be all,” said Caernahon, shooing at her with a gloved hand. “Take the lot of them with you, and tell the guards to divert all casualties to the other infirmary. I am working here.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said with a curtsey that seemed at once amateurish and deeply mocking.

  As the others departed, Caernahon turned to Rackmar, an ugly dark-pink light infusing his pale eyes. “Do not question me,” he hissed. “Do not argue with me. Do not attempt to assert your will over me. You remain whole at my sufferance alone.”

  Rackmar's hands clenched into fists, his teeth creaking from the vise-like lock of his jaw. Blood roared in his ears, demanding his voice be raised to match. Somehow he managed to force that impulse down, but it didn't go far, and for a moment he believed he would choke.

  Then it eased as a cold, reptilian voice asserted itself. Bide your time, Argus. Pander to them until you have used them up—then strike.

  “Of course,” he rasped through a flat facsimile of a smile. “I apologize, and I'll leave you to your work. I have reports to hear.”

  Caernahon made a gesture of dismissal, not bothering to reply.

  Some day, Rackmar vowed, he would snap that flippant hand from its wrist.

  *****

  Just outside the infirmary, Mariss caught their guide-mage by the shoulder. The woman shot her a look, half-alarmed and half-revolted.

  Mariss understood. She was a muddy fright after digging out her haelhene companions, and her mood wasn't the best. Between that bearded pustule's bluster, Master Caernahon's lies and her father's useless state, she had a chest full of rage and nothing to unleash it on. She desperately needed a distraction.

  Fortunately, her comrades' portal had brought her here, to an entire camp's-worth of captive men. She hated humans, but perhaps she'd just met the wrong type. Civilians, easily spooked and without discipline.

  Soldiers… That might have potential.

  “Your dress,” she told the mage, who glanced down at herself automatically. “It is a disgusting color. Have you got anything else?”

  The woman stared. “I… What?”

  “A dress of a different color,” Mariss repeated flatly.

  “...I have a green formal gown, but—“

  “Good. Let us get it.”

  “But—“

  “And a bath. Humans take baths, yes?”

  “Yes, but—“

  “No objections. Take me to your dress.”

  The woman clammed up, wide-eyed. Giving the most reassuring smile in her human repertoire, Mariss released her shoulder, and only then realized she'd been gripping it with her skinless silver hand.

  Ah well, she thought. Surely they've seen worse!

  Chapter 16 – Second Wind

  The swirling violet depths of the crystal held Lark's eyes. It was better to look into them than to stare into the looming Grey, she thought, even if they entranced her in the same way.

  She knew that time had passed. She could tell because she'd taken to scratching her arm with her thumbnail whenever she had that thought, and there were now sixteen pale marks against her dark skin. But she had no idea what the interval between the scratches had been. It was so quiet here, naught but the breathing of her closest companions intruding upon her focus, and so still that even the smallest human motion turned her head in surprise.

  Not that such a thing happened often. She was surrounded by people—Yendrah and Maevor, Erevard and Mendras, Talyard, Harbett and unconscious Vyslin—but they stayed as they were, eyes closed or else staring into nothing, exhaling slowly in the fog that draped them. To either side, the chain of humanity extended far into the mist, tangible sometimes when Lark focused on the sash- and cord-bound linkage of them but otherwise invisible. All but gone.

  It wasn't that they were tired. The men responded immediately when she spoke, and for a while they had chattered about everything and nothing, anxiety tightening their voices and tumbling the words across their tongues. But those words had run out eventually, and the others' vision was too misty to allow them to play cards, even though Maevor miraculously still had his deck.

  Lark and Yendrah had talked a while, about Yendrah's life and journey to the Palace with her nephew in her keeping. Lark had held back her criticisms of the Riddish; among the Shadow Folk, a club-foot was hardly a sacrificial matter, and even the most crippled or misborn could find a comfortable place in the organization. She supposed that the White Flame armor was the Empire's manner of compensation, but from how its wearers had suffered after the loss of the Light, she couldn't support it.

  Vyslin still hadn't woken up. His wounds were stitched and seemed to be mending; by this progress, Lark judged the intervals between checks to be even larger than she'd suspected. Yet he didn't stir, didn't even twitch in his sleep.

  And no one else slept. When Lark closed her eyes, she saw nothing but mist, and couldn't lull herself down.

  Time passed, yet nothing changed.

  Only the crystal was active. Holding it between her palms, she could feel the conflict within: the wraith-essences struggling for dominance. The gold-violet one remained the consistent lead, but the others pushed at it from all angles, unwilling to be subjugated. She sympathized with them even though she knew the colorless ones were haelhene. Giving in was against her nature too.

  Still, motivation had become a spiral in her chest: frustration sliding into futility, into ennui, toward emptiness like a slow-draining sieve. She could sense it happening but there was nothing to be done. They couldn't walk through the Grey, couldn't fall back into the physical world—not while the sleet-storm still raged.

  The scratches on her arm… Did they denote marks, or days?

  Her comrades' clothes were still wet. Ice-chips still speckled Yendrah's hair. Surely this meant it had been mere moments since their arrival. Surely they still had to wait, lest they step back into the teeth of the gale.

  Her thoughts kept muddling. Whenever she focused on her companions, she felt as if she was looking at portraits: expressionless, unblinking, their breath giving only the illusion of life. Vyslin lay among them like the centerpiece of a diorama, some artist's rendition of a death-vigil. Beyond them, the Grey moved in its meaningless way, swirling and shifting without wind and showing nothing, not even the shapes she had seen in her blackout.

  Your dying moments, a tiny part of her corrected.

  She didn't want to think about that. With effort, she wrenched her gaze from the Grey and scratched the seventeenth line on her arm with her thumbnail, then tried to focus on the crystal again. To understand, to resist whatever this place was trying to do.

  I'm not dead. I didn't die, not fully. I was just in between. This isn't the underworld. It's a place that we can leave, the same as we entered it. A place we will leave.

  Soon.

  And after that, the White Road. Keceirnden. The path home.

  She tried to envision it but all she saw was mist.

  A spark of anger rose within her, the first in a while. This wretched place! It was seeping into her, stealing her dreams, and she wouldn't accept that. Unlike her companions, she'd never been mind-bent, never brainwashed, and she refused to let it happen now. Not by a stupid, useless, empty realm that went nowhere and held nothing!

  Gripping the crystal, she focused on it like Ilshenrir had taught her. It had been his first lesson: to examine a material by probing it gently with energy, thus discovering how it might conduct or resist. It was the basis of artificing, he'd said, as well as an essential practice in general. To find the path, to evade or overbear resistance, to embed an enchantme
nt or strike a target—all just energy moving through substance.

  The crystal took no effort whatsoever. It was all pathway, a far cry from the stern resistance of the rocks she'd practiced with, and the wraithly conflict roiled right beneath its surface, barely contained. After a moment of observation, she tugged lightly, delicately, at the radiance they emitted through their battling.

  It flowed into her like a rush of blood, brushing away the numbness that had settled on her like dust. Her nerves tingled, a sharp pins-and-needles sensation that raced across her arms, down her flanks and through her legs to twitch her slippered toes. She felt her hair stand up in animal alarm despite its braids, and tasted lightning in her breath.

  Blinking rapidly, she wondered why she hadn't tried this before. Or had she, and just forgotten? It felt like being startled awake, the world around her broadening as the mist peeled back. Loosening her grip, she took in the extended view of her followers—all slumped in the last positions she'd seen them, dull-eyed, inert—and grimaced.

  It wasn't like this when Ilshenrir led us. We traveled easily. It took a long time but it wasn't tiring, wasn't effortful…

  No. It's not tiring now, either. That's not the problem.

  Ilshenrir crossed us through with motion, but we crossed through sitting, mostly. Do we just...stay the same as we arrived? Is that what this place is: an endless sameness, unable to change without being forced? They yanked me back to life, or I'd have gone with the misty ghosts. Vyslin was unconscious when we stepped over, and we've yet to pull him out.

  The ice won't melt. Fires won't start. No one sleeps, no one hungers.

  Shadow's Heart, you could spend forever in here and not know it.

  She looked at her arm. Seventeen scratches—seventeen circles of thought, who knew how large. Adding her conversations up, she estimated it had been half a day, but she had no way to quantify all the empty intervals, all the staring-into-space. Had it been weeks? Years?