He fell silent, and for a moment they chewed on their own thoughts, Lark remembering the flash of red runes and the spray of blood—the first death in the conflict between Sarovy's people and hers. Her first meeting with Darilan Trevere.
She missed him. Her. That person, who had somehow become a friend.
“Anyway,” said Enforcer Ardent into the silence, “I'll see what my Kanrodi contacts think. Until then, we still have to deal with the brigade on Old Crown.”
The captain nodded. “We can keep catching patrols, but not forever. We'll need to assault them soon, or else find some way to flush them from their wards. I don't suppose you have underground access?”
“Yes, but the passageways are warded too. Mako says they're using large-scale bubble-wards to cover entire estates, above-ground and beneath. That cuts off all our access.”
“So we would require mages of our own to breach them, or would have to resort to less traditional tactics—fire-setting and the like. Which I would rather not do, even with the isolation of Old Crown. The wind could still carry cinders down to the buildings below.”
Ardent wrinkled her nose. “Yes, let's not do that.”
“Um, do you need me for anything else?” Lark interposed in the moment's pause. “It sounds like you two have plans to make...”
They glanced toward her as one, and she was struck again by their mirroring. It would have been cute if she couldn't see it blowing up in their faces. Then the captain looked to the Enforcer, clearly deferring to her while in her office, and Ardent said, “That will be all for now. Zhahri will show you around, get you a room. We'll speak again soon.”
“Thanks,” said Lark, rising. “Best of luck in your plans.”
The Enforcer inclined her head and gestured a dismissal. Lark glanced to the captain, noted his non-expression, and hustled to escape.
The crop-haired dark woman awaited her outside, either southern Yezadri or Zhangish—but so did a small crowd of what could only be mages. The one in the lead was petite, brunette, with sharp brown eyes and an incongruously pink robe cut more like a dress. Behind her lurked a spindly ogre-blood wearing multiple necklaces of claws and stones, a Pajhrasthani fellow with a neat goatee, a tall aloof-looking Heartlander, and an Illanic girl just beginning her teen years.
The pink-dressed mage planted herself in front of Lark. “Scryer Mako,” she said brightly, holding out a hand to shake. “Where in pike's name did you come from?”
Lark stared, then cautiously extended her hand and let the woman wring it half to death. “Here, technically,” she said through a tight smile, “though my last stop was Fort Krol.”
“And before that, the Palace. I heard. Are you a scryer? You don't have a scryer's kit. Actually you don't have any kit—sorry to be nosy but I've been cooped up with the boys since the whole Blaze Company thing started, and Zeli is fine—well, she's stubborn and cranky but who wouldn't be—but it's nice to see another professional woman around. Not that the Shadow Folk aren't professional. Do you like wine?”
“I...yes?”
“Great! We'll have some wine and we'll talk. You're not a mentalist either, I'd be able to tell, but— Oh, is that an elemental? It's so cute!” she exclaimed. Dazed, Lark looked down to see Ripple peeking out from her sleeve above their clasped hands. “So you're a summoner? But you don't have the bracelets either. My goodness, are you a southern-style free-caller? Presh, look, she's a summoner too!”
At the mentalist's side, the Pajhrasthani smiled and inclined his head. Lark returned it strainedly, then tried to extricate her fingers from Mako's grip. The woman didn't let her.
“Listen,” she said, “I'm not— I'm just a dabbler. This robe—“
Mako flashed a grin, her eyes hooding. “Oh, I know, dear. But it's fine. I see you've done some work. We'll teach you more, of course. And I would appreciate another woman around.”
Lark blinked rapidly. “I… Can I think about this?”
“Not really! We're too short-staffed, and we can't let you go mage-ing around without being trained. So either you come with us, or no more magic while you're here.”
By the gleam in the woman's eyes, Lark knew she meant it. She didn't like being pushed, but, well, she'd planned to continue with magic anyway, even if it was just her own meager study. Enforcer Ardent hadn't immediately banned her from it, so presumably she could carve out a niche with her mixed skills, even if she never gained control of the kai.
“Well, fine,” she said. “Now I need to—“
“Great, let's bring you into the gestalt! Six is the ideal number, I'm quite pleased.”
With that, Scryer Mako nabbed her arm and pulled her into the group, which turned as one to march off down the hall. Lark cast an apologetic look to the Shadow Folk woman, who smiled and said, “We'll prepare a room for you by the mages, no worries.”
“Right, thanks,” Lark said weakly.
The mages chattered as they went, but Lark couldn't understand half of it. She scrutinized them instead, picking up names and details on the go. The ogre-blood was Voorkei, a Gejaran generalist, whom she recalled from the ride across Illane; the tall man was Tanvolthene, whom Mako called Edar and who had been an Imperial Warder before falling in with the group; Presh the summoner had been exiled north for some reason. And Izelina...
Lark eyed her. She seemed about thirteen or fourteen and haughty, in a robe of the same style as Scryer Mako's but clearly taken in. Catching her gaze, the girl shot her a superior look, and Lark had to resist the urge to pull her across her knee and spank her.
Brat, she thought. And here I am, twenty-one and the novice.
She'd have to amend that.
Their trek took them through twists and turns in the underground complex, past places Lark dimly recognized and into others she'd never seen. Somewhere deeper down was the goblin city she'd showed Cob on their long-ago trek; somewhere else were the ruins of her old home at the Merry Tom, and the bones of her friends and comrades. Though they passed many Shadow Folk in the halls, she recognized few. Shan Cayer's nightmare of being taken over by the shadowbloods seemed to have come true.
Can't worry about that now, she told herself as they reached a door marked with glowing mage-runes and pushed through into a large chamber, probably once a storage room but now empty of all but cushions. Colored chalk circles and sigils covered the floor; Lark noted that the others stepped only in the clear spaces, so took pains to do the same.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Scryer Mako, indicating the cushions, then sat crosslegged on one within the penultimate ring. Izelina followed suit on one side of her, then Presh, then Voorkei. Lark ended up between Scryer Mako and tall, wan Tanvolthene, not her first choice.
Mako gave her an encouraging smile as she settled. “You know how to channel, right? To draw energy and then send it outward?”
Lark thought of the stones Ilshenrir had taught her with, and the few tricks Vallindas had shown her. “Yes, I think so.”
“Right-handed or left-handed?”
“Right.”
“Good.” She offered hers, and Lark cautiously clasped it, then did the same with Tanvolthene on the other side. His fingers were long and bony, uncomfortable, but at least he didn't look at her.
“We're just going to form a conduit first,” said Mako, “very gently, to see if there are any obstructions in the flow. Do you mind if I connect with you mentally, Lark? For guidance.”
“It's fine,” Lark allowed, though the idea set her hackles up. She'd heard horror stories about the Empire's mentalists. Still, when the itch began at the base of her skull, she forced herself to exhale and relax. It spread slowly forward until it reached the backs of her eyes, making her want to rub them, then slowly faded back into a baseline rasp.
'No psychic aberrations,' Mako sent, her mind-voice rather clinical compared to her real one. 'Ready?'
That's it? Lark thought.
'Yep. Just here in case of trouble.'
Well...fine, then.
“All right. Everyone, link with your partners' auras. Tan, Presh, be gentle with the novices please.”
The men murmured assent, and then all was silent as the mages bent to their task. Lark felt an odd sensation in her left hand, which Tanvolthene held—like dry, dusty feathers brushing across her fingers and palm. A tepid pressure, a numbness moving up her arm…
'You have to reach back,' came Mako's voice. 'Mesh with him.'
The idea revolted her. She barely knew him!
'Don't worry. It's just like holding his hand, only spiritually. But you have to stand your ground—exert the same spiritual pressure upon him until you've equalized and can mingle. I'll brace you if necessary.'
Firming her jaw, Lark thought, Thanks, but was determined not to need it. Tanvolthene was still pushing at her—not hard, but enough for the numbness to start stealing up her forearm again, as if her soul itself was trying to flee.
She focused on the dull, cool edge of it just above her wrist. Under Ilshenrir's tutelage, she'd gained a sense of her own energies, but only in bland contrast with the power she'd drawn and channeled. Now as she examined the barrier, she saw—
—cat-eyes in the dark, fine scales, knifing wind, silt, sandy clay—
—a spirit-echo of herself on the near side. The bright plaster of her parents' house, the lizards sunning on the walls, the prayer-songs in the parched night. The bedrock of her memory, the land of her blood.
She pushed those impressions up against his dry feathers and felt them yield, felt the prickles of her hand reawakening. For a moment, her nails were cat-claws—then went normal again, just a phantasm.
Against her chest, the wraith-crystal twinged.
'Good,' sent Mako. 'Now soften that edge of yourself. Lower your guard, let him lower his, and just...blend.'
Lark grimaced. It seemed too intimate—but if she was to work with these people…
Tanvolthene's grip eased; perhaps Mako was coaching him too. Taking deep breaths, Lark envisioned her claws sheathing, and let the feathers slide over her hand like a glove. There was something firmer behind them, talon-like, and the scent of night and fir...
Then a spot of cold at the center of her palm. A trickle of energy that traveled up her arm, freshening her wits and straightening her spine in surprise.
'Now mesh with me,' sent Mako, and she felt a shiver of fur in her other hand, and tasted salt, blood, chemicals. A vision of Crystal Valley flashed through her head, with its bright spires and toxic air, and she tensed—then relaxed, pulling her claws in again to link with the Riddish mage. That cool rivulet flowed up one arm and down the other, then spilled away through Mako's palm.
'The Empire doesn't do this,' Mako sent, mind-voice wry. 'It makes it impossible to ignore our origins among the spirits and beasts. I didn't even learn how until I met Revek. —Er, Voorkei.
'Anyway, well done.'
Lark smiled slightly but didn't respond, because as the energy continued to flow through her, she gained a sense of the others in the circle. Beyond Mako was Izelina, all locked jaw and red stone and sunglare; beyond Tanvolthene was Voorkei, warm river and cold rock. Finally, Presh: starfire and the hiss of scales in sand.
The power traveled from hand to hand, each bearer equal, each keenly aware of the whole—each necessary. If one withdrew, the rest faltered. Lark knew instinctively that this was the weakness of a gestalt, but at the same time their connection made a break less likely. They felt each other's environments, the dangers and stresses, and like one mind spread across six bodies, they could turn their collective eyes upon any source of trouble.
Which they did, now, as the crystal beneath Lark's robe began to throb.
She tried to send soothing thoughts at it, but without it clasped in her hands, she couldn't focus. Its pulse spread to fill her body then started spilling into the others, who adjusted nervously as the cool trickle of power became a bright, hot river.
'What—' Mako started.
Then the mentalist connection snapped, and Vallindas' presence filled her.
“Students,” she heard it say through her mouth. The wraith's will turned her head to survey the circle, and she saw colors swirling over her companions in hallucinatory patterns. They were like the impressions she'd sensed of them—river and sand, snake and wolf—but made real, cladding them in vivid bestial masks and garments of starlight and red earth.
“Dabblers,” the wraith continued. “Children. Why have you diverted me from my goal?”
It was an accident, Lark tried to say, but she couldn't move her mouth. The power flowed through her as if she'd become just a pipe, and she saw sparks jump from her hands to crawl across her comrades' robes, purple and gold like Vallindas' essence.
Presh spoke first, with admirable smoothness. “Our greatest apologies, starfallen. We did not sense your presence. It was not our intention to disturb you.”
“You are attempting to assimilate my bearer.”
“I assure you, we intend no such thing. It is our way to join and separate without changing each other. Observe her: she is still herself, if you will allow her to be so.”
The wraith's presence paused, then spread out before her in a violet shimmer, the aberrant energy and visions going with it. As it grew, it gained shape and features until those golden eyes were looking down at her with something almost like concern.
It reminded her so much of Ilshenrir that she had trouble mustering a smile. “It's all right,” she managed, “we're just doing a...a mage thing that I guess your kind don't do. Because you subjugate each other, right? When you touch? I promise we're not doing that. I'm still me, and I'll bring you to a spire as soon as I can. I'm sorry I got sidetracked.”
It narrowed its eyes and swept the gestalt with another long look. Then it made a musical sound that could have been a curse or a sigh and dissolved into motes of light, which swirled around Lark to pour back into the crystal beneath her robe.
For a moment, all was silent.
Then Mako said, “So. When were you going to mention your wraith friend?”
Lark grimaced. She hadn't exactly been hiding the crystal, but because of the way she wore it, it had gone unnoticed. “I wasn't thinking about it,” she said lamely. “Look, I'm sorry for disrupting the gestalt. I didn't know Vallindas would do that. If you want me to—”
“No, no, it's… It's just surprising. I've only ever seen wraiths from a distance, over the salt desert, and those ones are dangerous.”
“From Hlacaasteia, yeah. They all moved to the Palace with that spire, I think. There are three more in my crystal, but the others are weak. Maybe they were lost longer.”
“And you've, um, bonded with that purple one?” said Mako, still dubious.
“It helped us get out of the Grey. Helped me channel the magic. But it doesn't want to be here, it just wants to go to a spire and be reborn. I'll have to do that soon.”
The mages looked amongst themselves, and Lark thought she caught the flickers of psychic messages flying back and forth. But no one had broken the circle, so finally Mako said, “Well. That was interesting. Shall we get back to work?”
Lark nodded gratefully, and the others agreed.
Chapter 19 – The Rule of Force
The scrying window showed her nothing. Ever since her father and his friends had passed through the wall in that strange ogrish city, she'd been unable to see them—and unable to connect with the splinter she'd put in the wolfman.
Aggravated, Mariss dispelled her latest scrying attempt and sat back on her flat crystal 'bed' to fuss with her borrowed dress. Though a pleasing dark green, it didn't quite fit, and the lacy bits at the wrists were irritating. Still, that little annoyance helped divert her wealth of nervous energy. Bad enough that she'd lost her quarry, but she'd also been remanded back to Hlacaasteia until the time that the haelhene located her father again.
After the incident with the wolf-woman at the edge of Daecia City, she was keen to know why. She wished her quicksilve
r kin were here, if only to track the bear-creature that had escaped the attack. There was no guarantee it still lived; those springy bug-people had been hunting it even before it stumbled into haelhene territory, and she didn't doubt her Master would have ordered his subordinates to tie up loose ends. But there was still a chance.
She hated being kept in the dark.
“For your own good,” she mocked under her breath. Master Caernahon had been saying that all too often these past few years. Any time Mariss got restless, any time she demanded to visit the humans and learn the lay of their lands, to see her mother's resting place, to learn more about her father and the Ravager, that was always the answer. No, not yet, for your own good.
Because of that, she didn't even know which city her father and his cohorts were in. They'd gone over a waterfall and alongside a tall cliff, but all she'd known for the long, dull decades of her life was the Riddish salt desert and the scruffy towns that verged it. The haelhene kept no maps, no documentation of any sort, and all her own books and notes had been destroyed in the washing-away of the quicksilvers' habitat in Crystal Valley. She knew there were other humans beside the Riddish, but not who or what they were, nor where they lived, nor what powers or sympathies they had.
At times like this, she felt like kicking the walls or throwing herself on the floor like she used to do when she was very young. Back then, it had been worth it just to bring all haelhene activity to a screeching halt; in the face of a temper tantrum, not even Master Caernahon had known what to do.
She had better options now. She could strike the spire with the green crystal blade; that would disrupt the haelhene workings entirely. After which, she could…
What? Fly off like an arrow in some random direction? She'd made enough escape attempts and wandered aimlessly in the desert too many times to do that again just for spite. She knew what she wanted: revenge, the Ravager, her father crumpled at her feet. But how to get it without Master Caernahon interfering...
And what to do with herself afterward...
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 53
