Crankily, she pushed up from the crystal slab and grabbed the green shard in its makeshift sheath. She had a sneaking suspicion that if she left it unattended, it would disappear forever. The strap chafed at the regrowing skin on her shoulder, requiring her to sling it on the opposite way; it wouldn't be as easy to draw, but she was passably ambidextrous.
Anyway, it wasn't as if she was expecting a fight in the spire that was her home.
She just felt restless. Agitated. The hum of the crystal, which usually comforted her, was grating on her nerves now, and she needed to walk off some of this energy. Maybe go out to the city and see how much more of it had decayed. How many more people were gathered at the foot of the spire, hands raised, praying and begging for aid.
They were so strange.
The empty wall opened at her touch, its red material flowing away like so much water. Beyond it bent one of the weird corridors the haelhene had shaped for her: a few yards straight and then curving to one side, a few steps up before it curved again, a short ramp and then another curve… On and on, twisting at random through the glossy pulsing interior.
The haelhene just walked through the walls, their garments and any other solid object folded away from physical space. Having observed them for years, she had a sense that even their 'bodies' were folded in when they passed through the crystal; only their lights were ever visible in the florid radiance of the walls, dancing along erratic paths like fireflies.
She wished she could do that, but no. She was solid. She could pass through the designated 'doors' because of her little red key-shard, but nothing else.
It was all too easy for Master Caernahon to build her a maze and just leave her in it.
Temper up, she was ready for such treachery, and to beat on the walls and make trouble until someone came to release her. But to her surprise, there were no blockades—just a many-kinked path that eventually widened into the portal-chamber at Hlacaasteia's heart.
An unusual number of haelhene populated it, either in humming clusters or standing like statues by the one active portal-frame. Since they had no need to rest, there was no furniture, not even a convenient bench, just the erratic planes and outcrops of the crystalline walls and the constant swirl of light within.
Master Caernahon stood at the chamber's center, easily recognizable by his fine facsimile hair and human mask. He was speaking to a darker creature in a garment of scales, with loose flowing locks that reflected Hlacaasteia's red light as a tinge of purple. Even in the ruddy glow, its garnet and wine and green tones were clear. As its gaze slid to Mariss, she saw the spark behind its wide eyes—the light of its essence.
A handful more of these creatures lingered by the portal, each a different color, bracketed by white-robed haelhene.
Perturbed, Mariss strode straight for her Master and planted herself as a third in their conversation. “Who is this?” she said as soon as Caernahon spared her a glance, gesturing forcefully to the wine-colored creature.
“I would ask the same,” it said, its voice the same fluting tone as any haelhene's.
“Mariss, my dear,” intoned Caernahon through his human mask. By the awkward way it moved, she knew he hadn't bothered to secure it while speaking with this thing, which meant that it was a fellow wraith—one of the kinds she'd heard of but never seen. The kinds the haelhene were at war with. “Might I introduce Seimaranth of Tantaelastarr spire, councilor of the First Flight. Councilor Seimaranth, my student, Mariss Ysara Enkhaelen.”
She went rigid and saw the creature's eyes narrow. Neither its face nor its garments were facsimiles, but fluid: its exposed living substance. The complete lack of fossilization meant that unlike the haelhene, it had accepted physicality—had fallen into this world's reality completely, and become an agent of the dark terrestrial forces that kept the wraiths here.
And Caernahon had just told it her full name.
“A pleasure,” it said in its sweet voice. She caught an overnote to it, one of those secret resonances she could never decipher, and had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from flying into a rage. They were talking behind her back from right in front of her face, as always, and now with strangers!
Their dual stares pinned her until she managed to mutter, “Likewise.”
“This may interest you, Mariss,” said her Master in a manner that told her she had been permitted to find this chamber. “Councilor Seimaranth brings to us a proposition to mend the breach between our kin.”
“To remove one source of conflict,” the councilor corrected coolly. Another overnote, a resonant response from Caernahon, then the councilor turned to face Mariss more fully. Despite its large eyes and bow-shaped lips, it was still as genderless as any haelhene, no more human than a piece of colored glass. “In the past, we have bickered over the use of the native races, with my side preferring to ban interactions and Caernahon's to...”
“Study them,” Caernahon supplied.
“Sadly, the natives have chosen to ignore our preference toward no contact. This darkness has inspired them to trespass upon us en masse, and we—the airahene council—have decided that we cannot tolerate it. Some, perhaps, are fleeing the eruption of Aekhaelesgeria, but others undoubtedly seek the light of our spires, to tear them down as they destroyed Anlirindallora in the Forest of Night. We cannot allow that. We do not wish to kill them, but simple expulsion will not keep them from coming again.”
“And so we are discussing a solution,” said Caernahon, offering a slight smile as his human mask became active. “You remember your practice specimens, yes? This is an opportunity to gather more, and of higher quality and variety, so that you will be better prepared when we find your father.”
Mariss stared at him. She did remember: the innumerable servile crossbreeds, the feral beast-people, and the handful of humans, all hollow-eyed, obedient, and stupid to the point of frustrating. They had been her first exposure to life-forms other than the haelhene and her quicksilver kin—the first that she recalled anyway, since her life before Uncle Orrith's sacrifice was just a faded watercolor dream. She'd learned to fleshcraft on their bodies, and to bind and extract their souls. To heal, to kill, to warp and remake.
For years, she'd thought all humans were like that: incoherent incompetents suited only for biological study. She'd resisted Master Caernahon's suggestion that she visit the local human settlements. Who wanted to see that en masse? But eventually her claustrophobia had won out over her disdain, and she'd gone sightseeing.
And found that humans—wild humans—were far more interesting than her tame specimens. Having some here, now, to work on and possibly talk to…
No. He's trying to distract you, to give you a reason to stay rather than seek the truth.
“I'm tired of the laboratory,” she said curtly. “I don't want any humans. I'm perfectly prepared already.”
“This is not an opportunity that comes every day, my dear...”
“I don't care. Why don't you give them to that ugly friend of yours, the Field Marshal? You two had your specimens all lined up. Go back to whatever you were doing with him and let me see to my own business!”
Master Caernahon's lips compressed. “Mariss, we have spoken about this. If you cannot abide by the rules we set—“
“You set. I can deal with my father just fine—or do you doubt your skill as a teacher?”
“This is for your benefit, Mariss. I know you chafe at being contained here, but until we locate him, there is nothing you can do. Bend yourself to these studies and the time will fly by.“
“We know where he's going! Let me go there first!”
“Perhaps if you would behave in the manner we agreed—“
“I want his blood!”
"Sometimes," said Caernahon coolly, "you are far too much like him."
Mariss froze.
It wasn't just the words. It wasn't the smug spark in his eyes either, though she hated it—how it always glinted through when he knew he'd stung her. It wasn't even the fact th
at he'd said it in front of a crowd, including a stranger who watched with scandalized interest.
It was the realization, sudden and absolute, that he knew her father. That he had been on speaking terms with her father; that he had seen her father act like this—argumentative, angry—and thought it was funny in that aloof and contemptuous way of his.
Her blood boiled. She wanted to fling herself at him, screeching his crimes, but knew instinctively that it would change nothing. The onlookers wouldn't care what she said; Caernahon was the Master, the other haelhene his minions, and these stranger-wraiths had come seeking his help. All that would happen would be her permanent detention here, in the spire.
She couldn't allow that.
So she stared back at him in silence, letting the rage howl itself hoarse. Self-control had never been her strength, but she wasn't a child anymore, and she'd had some practice. Slowly the violence bled away, leaving just a hollow ache—and questions.
Why the lies? What was he hiding? And what could she—
“Pardon me,” said Seimaranth. “May I see that crystal shard?”
Mariss frowned, but reached back reluctantly for the blade. It wasn't as if it was a secret.
To her surprise, Caernahon raised a gloved hand to halt her. “It is her property,” he told the wine-dark wraith, “and not up for discussion. Once we come to an accord, perhaps.”
Seimaranth's eyes narrowed, but then it shrugged with loose expressiveness, not at all the stiff restricted motions of the haelhene. “As you say. We must still discuss your access to our lands and the methods by which you may claim the humans. We know you have your ways of subduing and transporting them in groups. If you do this without disrupting our defenses, we may be open to further cooperation.”
“Such as?” said Mariss, curious despite herself.
The wine-dark wraith considered her, but aimed its reply to Caernahon. “Your conflict beyond the Rift, with the human cities. We have observed you in the camp by Varaku, and may be inclined to assist you against those elementals and the city currently besieged, Kanrodi. Both have been difficult neighbors.”
“And about our larger concern?” said Caernahon. “The Seals, our imprisonment?”
“Up for debate within the council. I have spoken with a few councilors in private, and I think enough of us have tired of this darkness and these restrictions to finally consider your way. I make no guarantees, but a grand cooperative gesture would go a long way toward swaying the uncertain.”
Caernahon's false mouth curved slightly in approval. “Well then, we should survey these interlopers and begin their removal. My dear Mariss, are you certain you do not wish a few specimens? There will be no shortage.”
Opening her mouth to snipe about the distraction, Mariss suddenly had a better idea. “Perhaps, Master,” she said smoothly, “but I would like to select them myself, on-site, not just pick from whatever dregs you bring me. Anyway, I look human enough. I could help manage them.”
Caernahon regarded her closely, eyes narrowed, and she made an effort to keep her expression neutral. If she seemed too eager, she knew he would ban it. Finally he looked to Seimaranth. “If our esteemed colleague has no objection.”
“None,” said the darker wraith. “Shall we survey the intrusion sites?”
“Certainly.”
With that, the wraiths turned toward the largest of the portals, still glimmering in its frame. Mariss fell in at their heels and saw the other colorful wraiths move to attend them, with an equal number of haelhene at their heels. The portal showed a strange scene: another portal chamber like a dreamy reflection of Hlacaasteia's, not pulsing red-orange but organic green, with curved branch-woven walls and great colored lozenges in the heights that must have served as skylights when the sun shone. In the center stood an upright shard of blue crystal twice Mariss's height, with brightly-colored airahene wraiths clustered before it. She wasn't sure if they were trying to be welcoming or defensive.
Seimaranth crossed through first, then Master Caernahon, then Mariss herself, indifferent to the spatial disjunction. As they moved away from the portal, she glanced around to see more frames grown into the greenwood walls, all showing patches of darkness dotted with firelight.
She hung back as Seimaranth drew Caernahon over to the other wraiths to confer in their song-like high language. On her back, the green shard shivered in counterpoint to the unfamiliar resonance of this place, as if recognizing it. She touched it lightly but could decipher nothing.
Eventually the clot of wraiths drifted toward one of the portals, still lilting and buzzing to each other, and she caught Master Caernahon's beckon. She fell in beside him as they came to the opening, through which she glimpsed a few airahene standing guard, their dark colors nearly blending with the night. Chilly air touched her skin as she crossed: not as bad as in the mountains where she'd pursued her father but still cold enough to make her grimace.
As her eyes adjusted, she found that they were standing in the shadows of a tree-line. Ahead, a crystal column as green as her sword rose from the center of a clearing, woody vines twined around it so thickly that its light barely showed. Dense clusters of fruit bowed the vines' extended branches, the lower ones currently being picked clean.
The humans there, and those at the fires that had been laid around the crystal, all looked haggard, dirty, feral. There were scores of them: men and women, children, old folk, huddling together under blankets and surrounded by sleds and baggage. The firelight picked out pikes and swords and glinted on armor, shield-rims, logging axes and tools, table knives, frying pans.
A veil of mist hung among the trees, hiding the wraiths' arrival. As Caernahon and Seimaranth drew aside to speak further, Mariss moved to its edge to peer at the people. She'd never seen so many blondes. Actually, before Daecia City, she'd barely seen a blonde at all; they were virtually unknown in the Riddish towns. These were different from the Daecians: less bleached, less ruddy-faced, more weathered and sandy. Bigger. Hairy.
Combative-looking, with their beards and sentinels. Like they wouldn't kneel before Hlacaasteia unless they were forced.
If they really did resist Master Caernahon's designs—if they really were wilder and smarter than the specimens he'd supplied her—then they might be useful to have around. Not in Hlacaasteia, but if she had contact with them elsewhere…
The inside of her ear buzzed, and she winced. It was Master Caernahon's way of calling to her silently, using one of those frequencies humans couldn't hear. Annoyed, she turned and saw him beckoning, and for a moment wondered what he'd do if she ran out to the humans and started shouting.
But it was too soon, and too blatant. Instead, she put on a neutral face and returned to his side.
“We will remove them,” he was saying to Seimaranth, audible for her benefit. “My military associate can put many of them to use, and the chaff will be taken to the White Isle. You say there are more of these sites?”
“Dozens,” said the wine-colored wraith, “all pushing toward the interior. You may take all that remain outside the second barrier. If any flee further...we will handle them.”
“Then we have a truce,” said Caernahon. “We will gather these immediately. Come along, Mariss. This is a good opportunity to practice your paralysis spells.”
Mariss nodded, not trusting herself to speak. As the mage-lights flared and the screams began, she strode out at his side.
*****
Field Marshal Rackmar looked from the personnel document to the pock-faced ruengriin before him, frowning deeply. He didn't like coincidences.
“Erevard of Cantrell,” he intoned. “Previously a criminal slave assigned to Bridge Company. Apprehended as a person of interest regarding the escape of one Cobrin son of Dernyel, likewise a slave of Bridge Company. Successfully converted and assigned to Akarridi.”
“Yes sir.”
“Then reassigned to the White Flame and the pursuit of said escaped slave.”
“Yes sir.”
> His gaze slid to the black-on-black akarriden blade, clasped to the pocked man's hip by his White Flame armor. “I remember you. I gave you that assignment, yes?”
“Sir.”
At the fringe of his mind, he felt his mentalist's interest, but disregarded it. It was just the three of them in his office, with his honor guard stationed outside—not his personal preference, but necessary when dealing with sensitive subjects such as this. The less he needed his men mindwashed, the better.
“And now you are here, having failed in your task, walked out from the Palace—the fallen Palace—through a Gold blockade into Thynbell, then forced the Gold Army to transport you. Just to request that you be added back to the pursuit of this slave, your former comrade.”
“Yes sir.”
“Your file states that you were Gold Army before becoming a criminal slave. That you deserted and were captured along with an enclave of Rift smugglers. That your conditioning has long since run out. Had I read this earlier, I might not have raised you to the White Flame. Yet here you are...”
His questioning tone had no impact on the man. Toxic-yellow eyes stayed fixed over his shoulder, posture tight and correct, scarred face expressionless. Only the slight twitch of fingertips betrayed some desire, and his mentalist had signaled no hostility. Rackmar himself had seen no sign of danger when he'd briefly removed his eyepatch, his crystal-vision showing almost no variance in the man's probable behaviors.
“What would you do, Erevard, if I said we no longer seek this Cobrin?”
Those fingers twitched again, but the man's face never changed. “Seek him myself, sir.”
“You wear our armor. You are still in service to us. Are you telling me you would desert again, just for this?”
“Yes sir.”
Blunt, no hesitation. Rackmar huffed a laugh, not amused so much as impressed by the audacity. “And if you find him?”
“I will kill him. And his companions.”
“Your sword. You've tracked him?”
“I have marked him. Stalked him. But my blade is broken. It still works, only...less. I need assistance.”
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 54
