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

by H. Anthe Davis

  She let her White Flames help her down from the fountain. Even the short descent seemed like a mile. Vyslin, she noted, was on his feet—both of them—and pale as the road itself but alert, with Harbett's hand on his arm. He gave her the barest sliver of a smile.

  “Lark, girl,” said Yendrah, and Lark turned to find herself clasped into a bosomy hug. Human warmth engulfed her like a blanket, and she barely kept her forehead from the sturdy woman's shoulder. Yendrah chuckled and thumped her on the back, then gave her a loud smooch on the brow.

  “Good girl, you stay safe now,” she admonished. “Me and mine will be off home. We owe you much. If you ever come so far as Vyrnaden by the coast, we'll put you up in splendor. At my sister's expense, I'll tell you. This beastly business—we couldn't have picked a better year to take the trek, eh?”

  “Too right,” Lark breathed. “I'm glad we got you out.”

  “Oh, it'll be a rich hoard of stories I bring back to the clan. What in buggery we'll do about it—who knows? But I'll be happy to crow your name to 'em. You're off west?”

  “Bahlaer.”

  “Long way in the dark. Go careful. Don't break your neck.”

  With that, Yendrah released her, gave a nod, and turned away to rejoin her kin.

  Lark exhaled heavily. The pilgrims were drifting from her in good-sized clumps now, ragged voices rasping alongside the awestruck ones of the locals. Open doors and firelight beckoned. Her job was done.

  She looked to those still around her: the White Flames plus some tall fair Wyndish women, the varied countenances and complexions of the Darronwayn, and a few dusty-colored Averognan. No other Illanites beside herself, Maevor and Mendras.

  “So. Let's get some rooms?” she murmured, and received a soft chorus of assent.

  *****

  The business of lodgings, she assigned to Harbett and Talyard, who were by far the most conscious of her crew. Under their urging, she managed to slog to one of the newly-opened inns, then slumped into a chair by the hearth and immediately fell into darkness.

  When she awoke, it was atop a quilt with another flung over her. She sat up slowly, wincing at all her aches, and squinted around by the light of a shuttered lantern. The room stirred with the faint sounds of others' breathing; a sleeping shape lay on the other side of her bed, and more in the one against the far wall.

  She scrubbed at her face and felt grit grate across her skin. That explained why she'd been only half-tucked in: she was still filthy with swamp-muck, the enchantments on her robe enough to clean it but not her.

  Beneath the collar of her robe, the chunk of crystal glowed softly. She pulled it out and shivered at the rush of energy it transferred to her. The three silent strangers were still trapped in there, blue and white radiance battling, but the other—Vallindas—she couldn't see.

  “Are you there?” she murmured into the hush of the room.

  Dull golden light traced the tops of her hands in lacy lightning-patterns. Turning them over, she saw more light in her palms, like glinting thread—not painful, just tingly. The wraith remained a faint shimmer behind her eyes, either tired or just naturally quiet; either way, she could think of nothing more to ask, and it offered no comment.

  Get a bath, she decided as the glow dispersed. Also new underclothes.

  Her feet were bare, a fact she realized when they touched the cold stone floor. Shivering, she pushed herself upright and nearly fell into the washstand, her legs too weak to hold her. The world swam in dizzy colors, but she braced herself and kept breathing, and eventually the weakness ebbed away.

  There was a pitcher on the washstand, and cups. She reached out—then lurched back as something flung itself at her, bringing her arms up automatically in self-defense. Her backside hit the bed, jolting the other occupant awake, but she barely noticed; all her attention was on the threat, the—

  Water. It slid through her fingers, coiled around her neck, and made a rushing sound of question. She took a shuddering breath, then hissed, “Ripple?”

  It settled comfortably. She sighed.

  “All right?” mumbled the other sleeper. A glance showed her Vyslin's pale sharp face, his eyes heavy-hooded. The stitches in his shoulder and arm showed even whiter than his skin, defining a lopsided star where he'd been clawed open. In contrast, the spiky black talon-patterns of his tattoos stood out clearly, no longer blurred by bruising or infection. They ended just below his collarbones, and she realized by that glimpse of chest that he was probably naked.

  “Fine,” she whispered back. “I'm going out. I'm filthy and I want to know what's happened.”

  “I'll come with you,” he said, and threw off the quilt and several layers of blanket. She looked away quickly from the full-body flash of pallor, cursing whoever had set this up.

  “Take the piking quilt,” she hissed. “No one wants to see your bare ass.”

  “No one here,” he rejoined sulkily, but did as requested, wrapping the top layer around his waist before attempting to stand. She watched with concern as he tottered, but it was just for a moment. Then he gestured for her to precede.

  She peeked out the door and found an open hallway beyond, one side a balcony that overlooked the common room below. Stairs led down into a main hearth-space crowded with low stools and overstuffed chairs and benches; beyond it was a low dividing wall and then a bar, bottles gleaming mellowly in the firelight.

  A small crowd populated the hearth area, lacing the air with conversation and pipesmoke. Lark immediately picked out Mendras and Harbett, but if the other White Flames were there, they were lost among the pilgrims—who didn't look much like pilgrims anymore, having exchanged their whites for street clothes.

  Still, she could identify them by their haggard looks. Some glanced up as she descended and nodded or gave a wave, but most were curled up in chairs or staring glazedly at the fire, still stuck in their memories of Palace and swamp.

  And there were strangers among them, well-fed and well-rested: the innkeepers and other locals, she guessed. She returned the nods automatically, then mustered a smile for the aproned and kerchiefed woman who bustled up from the hearth area.

  “Honored magus. You'll be wanting the baths?” she said, bobbing a nice curtsey. “We dared not touch your things while you slept.”

  The corner of Lark's mouth quirked up. She could get used to this. “Yes, thanks. That was wise of you. Never handle others' enchantments.”

  “Of course, magus. Come this way. —Oh, you with the blanket, my husband has the old clothes-trunk out, go put something on.”

  “'You with the blanket',” she heard Vyslin mumble as she was swept off in the innkeeper's wake.

  The baths were next to the kitchen and steamy with heat, the basins clearly well-used; dirty footprints covered the tiles. A beleaguered maid scurried off as they arrived, leaving the innkeeper to blush over the conditions. “So many, so suddenly, you understand. I truly apologize, magus—“

  Lark waved magnanimously. “It's fine. Just bring the water.”

  As the woman swept off to harangue the escaped maid, Lark poked Ripple's fat, wobbly surface. “You've been napping in the pitcher since they put me to bed,” she murmured, “now do something for me, hm? Clean. You remember that word? Clean this.”

  Languid, the water-serpent let her uncoil it from her shoulders, then slithered into a basin and began scrubbing it up. By the time the owner and maid returned with their buckets, it was wringing itself out by the drain, silt and dirt flowing away.

  “Pay no mind,” Lark said as they stopped to gawk. “Now, you had spare clothes?”

  *****

  Some time later, blissfully clean and redressed in leggings, a loose blouse and slippers, Lark returned to the common-room. Ripple clung to the back of her neck, sipping away the water that still weighed down her braids; she hadn't bothered to undo them. That could wait until she was truly safe, truly home.

  Her followers' heads turned as she approached. She smiled crookedly, wondering how much
different they found her by firelight. With the robe under her arm and the wraith-crystal hidden beneath her blouse, she should have looked like just another refugee—but she knew she didn't. Her southern heritage was too clear.

  “Magus,” said Harbett, standing to offer his seat.

  She smiled slightly, appreciating the continuing fiction. “Thanks. Is there food?”

  There was, and after a cup of tea and one of strong broth with a big chunk of bread to soak in it, she started to pull her wits together. Almost all of her men were here: Vyslin dressed and fed and nodding off in a chair, Harbett and Mendras shoulder-to-shoulder on a bench, Talyard on the floor by their feet with gloom writ broadly across his stubbled face.

  And Maevor, standing at her shoulder as if he'd materialized there.

  “Where's Erevard?” she murmured up to him.

  An uncomfortable look crossed his weathered face, and his gaze slid toward the door. “Don't know. He went outside not long after we got here, and I don't think he's been back.”

  A cold finger ran up her spine. “Is that trouble?”

  “I...can't tell. He's a dangerous one. But I don't think he'd run off to tattle. Not his way. Anyhow, there's no one to tattle to anymore.”

  “What?”

  “The Gold Army's piked off, apparently, and the White Flames and Sapphires too. It's just the local militia now. No Watchtower connection, no word from the Lord Protector in Silverton. We've been telling them about the Palace—I hope that's all right.”

  She waved off his worry. “Has to be done. For pike's sake, the sun's gone and the pilgrims' gate collapsed. It's not like they don't know something's wrong.”

  “No, but they had no idea what, beside that the Midwinter rites failed. Apparently all the White Flame priests dropped dead and the common-sect locals are preaching the end of the world.”

  “Are people listening?”

  “Some. This city is as practical as it is pious though. You don't need to be a rabid Light-follower to make money off the pilgrims. Our host says they've been getting some desperate stragglers in, though, thinking their prayers will help the Emperor in his vigil. That's what they say he's doing out there at the Palace—trying to pray back the sun.”

  Lark shook her head slowly. “They been talking to our pilgrims?”

  “A bit. Couple of 'em in here right now. I don't recommend any speechifying. In fact I think it's best if we just slip away as soon as possible.”

  “What are our travel options?”

  “No caravans rolling. We've got no money either; our gossip is what bought us food and bunk-space. Lots of scared people here, looking for someone to blame—not that I think we're in danger, just I'd rather not linger. Mendras and I can pretend to be Darronwayn or dark Riddish, and your robe will protect you from most ire, but that won't last forever.”

  “I know, I know.” She squinted into her teacup, running over the options. Walking to Bahlaer—that sounded like the definition of torture, and would probably take months in this weather. Hiring or hijacking a caravan could work, but it would be difficult enough to feed and shelter themselves without having to worry about draft-hogs. Waiting the darkness out…

  She shook her head. Maybe she couldn't do anything to fix this situation, but she'd rather be hoisted on a pike than just hide and hope the storm blew over. Maevor was right: they'd witnessed something that could pay their way to the west, if only they knew how to apply it.

  Or else they could contact the Shadow Folk.

  Looking over her White Flames, she wondered how feasible that was. She'd led Dasira through the Shadow Realm without her friend being torn apart, but that was back when the sun still ruled the sky. The Shadow Folk told some dire tales about the dangers of the Realm during the last Long Darkness.

  Would these men even follow if she tried to go that way?

  She hoped so. She'd grown fond of them, and felt they could do better than this ruinous Empire. But she'd argued enough with Cob to know they wouldn't be easily convinced.

  “We should talk privately,” she told Maevor. “All of us.”

  “There's a private dining room,” he said, and offered her a hand up.

  In short order, the six of them were settled in a rough arc at the end of a long inkwood banquet table. The innkeeper had lent them another lantern but made no move to light the hearth; clearly their credit only extended so far. The low, flickering light made Lark feel comfortingly conspiratorial.

  “Walking or caravan,” Harbett echoed doubtfully. “Caravan needs money we don't have.”

  “And I sure-as-balls ain't walking,” groused Vyslin. “My leg is down to a twig.”

  Lark sighed. “We can pay them either in information or on delivery—or maybe with protection, if there are caravans that want to head out but fear monsters in the dark. I agree we can't walk. I've had enough of that for a lifetime.”

  “Can't expect the pilgrims to do it either,” said Harbett. “We're gonna have to leave some behind anyway; there's a bunch with bad frostbite, others fallen sick from all this cold and strain. Been talking to them, and I think maybe ten will forge west with us.”

  Lark nodded slowly. “And all of you are coming? Harbett, you're an Amand, aren't you?”

  The big man shrugged. “Sure, but I've spent more time in the army than with my kin. The Crimson is home. And the captain needs to know about this business.”

  “You can tell him for me,” said Vyslin. “I'm heading up the foothills as soon as we see 'em.”

  “Piking deserter.”

  “Kiss my ass. I lost a leg and a lieutenancy in this hog-crap, I'm going home.”

  “Guys,” Lark said before they could go on, “we need to get there first. Where would you split off, Vyslin?”

  “Fort Krol. Next stop from here. Still about a hundred piking miles away though.”

  “Then Cantorin, then Thynbell,” she mused. Cantorin was where Fiora had come from, and Thynbell was where most of the Wynds would likely stop, it being their capital. Both were outside of the Shadowless Circle, and thus would have Shadow outposts if not enclaves. She didn't know about Fort Krol. “Is everyone going as far as Cantorin?”

  “Most,” said Harbett.

  “Then we need to plan how to get there. After that, I can handle it.”

  “Why can't you handle it from here?” said Vyslin. “Pike caravans, pike walking, do mage things!”

  She gave him a look, but he failed to quail. “I can't do 'mage things',” she said sternly, “But I have contacts who can help, once we're in their area.”

  “Like who?”

  Her gaze slid to Mendras and Maevor. Those two, at least, would support her. “I'm not a Circle mage,” she said heavily. “I'm a Shadow Folk agent. Once we get out of this area—“

  Vyslin lunged for her only to be jerked away, and she flinched as his spike-like foot missed her face by inches. “Put me down!” he howled as Harbett hauled him back, brawny arms locked around his chest as he kicked and thrashed. “Put me down or I will piss in your eyes! I'm not gonna kill her! I'm just gonna hurt her a little!”

  Maevor stepped into the breach, mangled hands curled into fists. “You will not,” he snapped. “Not after all she's done for you. Now quit struggling and shut up before someone else hears and thinks to burn her for the Light.”

  “I'll do it my piking self! I lost my leg to those shit-weasels! I will stomp a mudhole in her fa—hrffnr hrrnh!”

  Hand crammed sideways into Vyslin's mouth, Harbett hissed, “Shut up, you're the only shit-weasel here— Stop biting me!”

  “Hrrhrgh hrgh hrr!”

  “Put him down,” Lark said, wincing at the noise he made even when stifled. “Vyslin, I don't know what happened between yours and ours, but I'm sorry for it. I'm sure they are too. We're not supposed to spill blood unless it's absolutely necessary, but if someone overreacted, or if—“ Suddenly she remembered the news of Bahlaer: the collapsed Shadowland, the missing and the dead. She took a deep breath. “We h
ave our grudges. But they belong on that side of the Rift. All right? Can we leave them there?”

  Vyslin stared at her with flinty eyes, but finally ceased to thrash. Harbett set him down and extracted his hand from Vyslin's jaws with a quiet oath.

  “Fine,” Vyslin growled, straightening his borrowed clothes with great dignity. “Just—fine. Glad I'm leaving. Didn't want to keep working with you festering ball-sacks anyway.”

  “Oh shut your face,” said Talyard, dourly amused.

  Lark made hopeful gestures toward the chairs, and after a moment Vyslin, then Harbett, settled down again. “Really, I apologize,” she said, “no matter what happened. But right now we still need to get to Fort Krol. I think it would be best to canvass the caravan-yards, see if anyone has any desire to move out, then induce them to take us. If we need payment...there are all these collapsed buildings. Maybe there's something valuable to be found.”

  “Like death-by-crushing,” Vyslin muttered.

  “I'll send Ripple in if it seems too dangerous for people,” Lark soothed. “I don't want anyone to get hurt. And if there's no other option, I'm sure we can steal a caravan. I don't think there's anyone in the city who can stand up to the five of you.”

  That garnered a few chuckles. Even Vyslin looked smug. Then he glanced toward the chamber door and said, “Not so much as when Erevard was here. He's a piking lunatic but it's not bad to have one on your side.”

  “Did he say anything before he left?”

  Harbett shook his head. “Just stepped out. Not entirely sure he's gone, but it's been half a day now.”

  That thought jabbed Lark in the ribs. “Do you know what day it is? Has the innkeeper been counting?”

  “She said it's Sycinel 8th. So that's eleven days since the sun went out.”

  “Shadow's Heart.” She saw Vyslin bristle at her oath, but couldn't worry about it. In her mind's eye, a calendar unreeled. Eleven days of absolute darkness in what should be the post-monsoon growing season in the south…