“And your reason for hunting him?”
Those eyes snapped to him, starburst pupils expanding wide. “He started this. Him and Trevere. I'll end it. Then I'll rejoin Jas.”
Rackmar pursed his lips. He'd worked with many zealots, and been accused of it himself. Most within his order were grandiose, fiery, passionate, with a few who had refined themselves down to calm and cunning—clinically persuasive.
This man was beyond even that. Meeting his eyes was like staring into the Void, nothing behind them but cold space.
A shame he'd fixated on a hard target. He could have been useful. Now there wasn't even time to fit him with a crystal shard. Not that he seemed to need one—surprisingly robust fellow—but perhaps that came from his obsession.
“You're in luck,” he said, tossing the document down. “We believe we know where your quarry is headed, and while we're not hunting him specifically, we are very interested in his traveling companion. You're welcome to kill this Cobrin so long as you merely cripple the one he's with, Shaidaxi Enkhaelen.”
“Enkhaelen,” Erevard echoed without inflection.
“Cut off his arms and legs; he'll probably survive. Cut out his tongue and I'll even reward you extra. But don't kill him. We need his soul still in his body.” He pulled a clean parchment over, then dipped his quill-pen and began scribbling a quick order. “I'm assigning you to the highest of our Kerrindrixi garrisons. Enkhaelen will have to head to Howling Spire eventually. If your sword can still sense your prey, your presence will be invaluable.”
Erevard nodded, then stepped forward as Rackmar held out the brief writ. “Take it to the mages' dome when you're ready to depart,” Rackmar continued. “My aides will assign you a temporary bunk until—“
“I will go now.”
Rackmar blinked, but there was no sign of compromise in that face. “Dismissed, then.”
A salute, then Erevard turned away, pulled open the spell-covered door, and was gone.
“Well, that's one arrow fired into the dark,” murmured Rackmar, grimly amused.
“If I may, sir?” said the mentalist.
Rackmar arched a brow but made a permissive gesture. This man, Laurent, was one of the few mentalists who had answered his call rather than run home from the broken Gold Army or disappear into the Inquisition's grasp. An older Wynd, he'd served in the Gold since before even Rackmar's tenure.
“While that one spoke the truth, he has a strange mind,” said Laurent. “Almost...well, I want to say 'influenced', but I saw no sign of tampering and his slave-conditioning has quite worn off. It is peculiar. Perhaps he should be assigned a handler…?”
Rackmar considered, then shook his head. “I've got no controllers or mentalists to spare. It will be up to that garrison to handle him—not that he could catch or kill Enkhaelen anyway. He's one of that piker's creations. Distract him though, with that blade? Yes. Enough for someone else to do the job.”
“As you say, sir.”
Rackmar appreciated that subservience, that bowed blond head. Too many mages believed themselves superior because of their unnatural powers. “Too bad it took him so long to report,” he added. “Would that I'd had his news of the Palace and my priests earlier, while it could do some good. Before that piker Caernahon staked his claim.” For a moment, his ire rose hot, then he pressed it down. He would deal with the wraith-lord later. “You will not repeat what he said about the Palace.”
“Naturally not, sir.”
It weighed on his soul to know that the Light was truly lost, the holy city fallen. If he had remained by the Throne rather than fleeing to save his own life, could he have made a difference? Or would it all have collapsed around his ears regardless? From Erevard's terse description, he doubted there was much to salvage now; he'd mentioned White Flames and priests in bad condition, and after more than a week under haelhene control, it was likely they were dead. Or imprisoned—a secret mirror of Caernahon's experiments here.
He longed to beat answers out of the wraith-lord, but knew it was impossible. His only leverage now was the Crown Prince's life, and he would not spend it so easily—not even to retrieve his priests. Not when the Prince could still be chosen as the Light's new Scion once these Seals were released and the Light returned. In a way, it was fortunate that the wraiths had locked the place down and the accursed rovagi had gone rogue and were eating stragglers. Neither group were likely to gossip about what they'd seen.
But those pilgrims who had escaped the swamp with Erevard…
Nothing I can do about them now. The news will spread, and with it a terror greater than the Darkness alone could incite. The Empire will fall apart before my eyes…
No. It is not news. It is a spiteful rumor, borne by agents of the Void and the Dark. All who speak it should be put to the sword, for they are drawing necessary energy away from our efforts to bring back the Light. The Emperor is still upon his Throne, beseeching our god to return. All faithful must resist despair and turn their hearts and minds to the same task.
A necessary lie, to keep the Empire whole. To keep things from getting worse. He made a note to pass the order on through all possible channels.
“Oh, while you're here, I have a mission for you,” he told Laurent as he pulled another stack of personnel files to the center of the desk. There was a small wooden case as well.
“Sir?”
“I've had some troubling reports from Seething Brigade in Bahlaer. Disappearances, kidnappings, assaults on our soldiers. The colonel there believes it to be the work of Blaze Company, one of the units we lost on Darkness Day. He's got no proof, and my other aides think it's just Shadow Cult and cityfolk retaliation, but considering the roster...” He tapped the stack of files with a blunt finger. “Enkhaelen had his hands in this company's creation, so I doubt they simply died. They could be doing his work right now.”
“Distressing, sir.”
“Yes. Fortunately, we have agents among them—and a few special tricks. Unfortunately, we lost their on-site handlers in the chaos of Darkness Day and I've not been able to replace them. Too many Inquisition defections. You are my most reliable—“ only reliable? “—mentalist at this time, and Light knows I can't spare you either, but right now I have to send you there to take back the reins.”
“Alone, sir?”
Rackmar smirked. “Of course not. I'll be reinforcing Seething Brigade with ahergriin from the northern line—you know those, yes? You've been on the border, managing the troops...”
“Easing the mind-shocks, yes. Blanking the prisoners, patching up conditioning. Field Marshal, are you certain it's wise to bring them south? There is a reason we keep them where few freesoldiers can see, and with the current state of our mentalist ranks...”
Rackmar waved off the concern. “The soldiers don't have to see them. Bahlaer has turned against us, so at this point I'm willing to just drop a battalion of ahergriin into the city and let them run wild. Likewise for any city this side of the Rift that dares resist us. They're not our people, and if they can't be converted, what use are they?”
“Certainly, sir, but the damage...”
“Illane's value is in its soil and its caravan roads. The people, the cities—they can burn for all I care. We'll repopulate this land with our own kind and raise monuments to the Light in the ashes of their heresies. We would have done so from the start, but the fool Prince had no stomach for the scouring.”
“Savinnor as well, then, and Fellen?”
“Yes, and Kanrodi once we take it. All the cities of Gejara, all of Jernizan—all of Averogne and Kerrindryr too. Those Averognans hiding in their murky forest, they've never been true Imperials, and the Kerrindrixi are still riddled with cultists. Wipe them all out!”
Laurent nodded, agreeable as always. “Then you would have me go immediately, sir?”
“I'll write your note of introduction right now,” said Rackmar, and pushed the files and the case toward Laurent. “The top few are the agents, then Blaze in order of im
portance. If they have turned against us, I want them eradicated—specialists as well. Any of the blessed who doubt the Light must be destroyed before they infect the rest.”
“As you say,” Laurent answered. He flipped open the case, raised his brows, then reclasped it and took up the papers instead. Rackmar watched him with interest as he went through them, for he didn't seem to read—just stared blankly at each page for a few moments before turning to the next.
Then, just as Rackmar was dipping his quill to write the order, Laurent's head came up. “What?” said Rackmar, pausing his hand.
Eyes distant, Laurent said, “The portals. Someone's activated them from the far side—Hlacaasteia, apparently. Lord Chancellor Caernahon, oh, but there are more, many more… Wraiths and humans both...”
Rackmar dropped the pen back in the well and pushed upright, a cold sweat on his brow. The last thing he needed was Caernahon deciding to start trouble.
“With me,” he said, and strode for the door.
*****
Sanava frowned down at the body on the cot. It was hardly recognizable as a man anymore, the flesh gone dark and lumpish, squirming, the face studded with thorny structures that on close inspection were beaks. Feathers extended more thickly from its scalp than did hairs, the rusty-red almost hidden by the black.
If she leaned in, she could see eyelids twitching under the tangle of feathers, but few other features: no nose, no ears, just a slit of a mouth and the faint fuzzy suggestion of a jawline. What had once been a fool named Vesha was now this mass—this thing—that twitched and chirred and hissed to itself in a hundred crow-like voices.
“We don't know what to do,” said the bunkhouse matron who had called her in, wringing her hands anxiously. “He'd been sleeping since you brought him, so we hadn't checked him often—once every few marks? Last time, he was all mottled-up like he was bruised, but at least he still had a face. This—no one wants to deal with this.”
Sanava touched the knife hidden under her dress, thinking of putting him out of his misery. He'd been a nuisance ever since she'd found him, no matter that he reminded her of home. Whatever had been done to him in the Palace, it was clearly out of control.
Then a wing extruded from where his collarbone should be, stretching itself as if wishing to take flight. It folded down and collapsed a moment later, melding back into the iridescent darkness, but it had told her something.
“He dreamin',” she explained. “Walkin' wi' spirits. Crow's bound in him, fightin' him—fightin' fer him, mebbe, 'gainst dark stuff he took in. Either he die from it or he recover on his own. Put blanket over and ignore.”
“But we can't ignore it,” said the matron, brows and lips drawn down as one. “It—they chirp sometimes, and screech, all in chorus. Sometimes they even break off and skitter around, these deformed little birds, never whole, just...a wing and a head, or no wings, all talons, or these globs of them like birds mashed together. They don't die either. Kavi beat one flat with a broom but it just pulled itself back together and toddled around, squawking.”
“Then dun hit 'em.”
“You need to take him out of here.”
Sanava cocked her head and sneered at the matron. Though taller and heavier by a good measure, the woman winced, holding up a hand in plea. “He can't be here when the inspectors come, not even in the back room. What if one of the birds got out? They'd tear these barracks apart, tear the whole women's section apart. He'll doom us all.”
“Some man see it, kill him,” said Sanava flatly.
“Who, the soldier or—“
“Yeh, him, enemy man. Kill him.”
“We can't! Their officers know when they're here. Even with Sergeant Gale's help, we can't cover that up. And we sure as pikes can't put that mass of...of flesh in a dress and say it's a sickly woman. My girls have been begging me to throw it out, or else move them to another bunkhouse, and I can't deny them forever.”
Sanava glanced over to where the rest of the building's tenants lingered just in earshot, whispering behind their hands. This was supposed to be an inviolate 'resting' bunkhouse for the pregnant or nursing or sick, but over the past week the camp's patrols had become increasingly invasive. Sergeant Gale had managed to keep his military police unit assigned to them, but he'd reported increasing push-back from his superiors and the other police units.
The whole camp was agitated. Part of it was her and Gale's dissemination of the Crown Prince's imprisonment, but there were also rumors flying of weird wraith experiments going on in the old infirmaries; of the portals in the mages' dome standing open day and night for mystery traffic; of unknown abominations slipping in among the camp's personnel, replacing or reinforcing them until they far outnumbered the Prince's loyalists.
Of course, there was also the river, which had flooded its bounds for days and turned the land around the command post hill into a quagmire. It hadn't been as bad as the monsoon flooding, and the rush had since receded, but for some time it had foamed black and thick. Even now it tasted of ashes.
She chewed her lip, looking back to Vesha's distorted form. On the one hand, she sympathized with the women here, though they were cowards. This was not something she would willingly share a room with. On the other, she had nowhere to put him that the hounds would not sniff out. Only the red lines of Trifold protection kept the abominations from this quarter, and those were tested often enough without her wafting Vesha's weird scent around.
Also, what if he succeeded?
Though the wards locked the Crimson camp away from the spirit world, Vesha was clearly linked to it. The crows might be trapped in his flesh, but they served as a conduit to that other-space—one that could not be cut, else he'd be a rotting pile of meat right now.
If he survived whatever trials the Old Crow was putting him through…
If he won, and returned with that ancient spirit's favor...
“Keep him, little longer,” she told the matron. “We watch fer danger, take him away if problem. Yeh tell if any change.”
“We won't tolerate this—“
“Yeh will. Yeh gotta. This thing in him, it tear up wraiths, eat mages, rip eyes from Rackmar's face. We jes' need t' let it grow strong first. Then we point it at enemies an' let it strip 'em down to bloody bone.”
The matron blanched, casting a nervous glance at Vesha. “And if it attacks us instead?”
“Won't,” said Sanava firmly, thinking he's too softhearted to attack a woman. Too cowardly to fight without being cornered first. But then she remembered what he'd told her of the little girl in the General's cabin, and her lips drew back automatically. “Can't,” she added, because even if he could, these women had to stand firm and keep him hidden. She didn't mind lying if it would give them some backbone. “Know friend from foe. Jes' confused now, dreamin'.”
Though her face tightened, the matron slowly nodded, hands ceasing their anxious twist. “I'll try, but we'll have to rotate the girls. ...I suppose we might as well put our stockpiles in here now, if we can't hide him. Too much chance some drunk asshole will trip over them if we keep them spread around.”
“Do what yeh can,” said Sanava, and turned toward the exit. The spectating women immediately fluttered out of sight. In her mind's eye, she saw the place full of Corvishwomen, armed to the teeth and painted for war, and sighed. No matter what she did, this soft lowland lot would never be as useful.
She had to make do with the weapons she had.
She had just started past them, meaning to insinuate herself among the service-women to eavesdrop on the drunken soldiers, when the door at the end flew open. Every woman in the place whipped around, faces drawn with fear.
Sanava reached for her knife—then recognized Sergeant Gale. The others did too, and a ripple of relief went through them, followed by questions. He didn't answer them. He just strode right up the aisle, and as the lamplight touched his face, Sanava saw his distress.
“What?” she said.
“The mages' area just ope
ned. There's a whole mob coming through.”
He grabbed for her arm, and she forced herself not to punch him. With the other women following in a gabbling flock, she let herself be pulled toward the door, thoughts racing: more soldiers? more mages? They had enough enemies already.
By the time they wended their way from the women's section to the dome, the Field Marshal's entourage was already in evidence. They stayed among the shadows of the empty military police bunks, watching as wraiths both bright-colored and pale led long chains of people out, while Field Marshal Rackmar and his main haelhene crony looked on and bickered.
The new humans were prisoners, clearly; fine arcane bonds held them all, from the smallest child to the oldest crone. But while Gale hissed his curiosity and frustration at the situation, all Sanava could think was Serves them right, since down to the last man, they were Wynds. The same folk who had condemned her here.
A taste of their own medicine. Let's see how they like it.
Chapter 20 – Phantom Limbs
Among the branches of the black-and-silver tree sat Lerien, staring down at him.
“Shut up,” Cob muttered preemptively.
Lerien rolled his eyes. “I hope you feel bad about last time, because I'm not going through it again. Can't you just touch the tree and have done with it?”
“You're jus' like the Guardians.”
“And you're too stubborn. It's not as bad as you think.”
Cob looked away. He couldn't help his fear of the Dark, or of the powers that put him in contact with it. He didn't want to be pulled back down into that drowning black depth.
A sigh, then Lerien thrust himself from the branch and dropped to the ground. Cob winced at the crack of his boots on rock; the stone beneath them was solid but thin, like slabs of slate. The Dark had eaten its way up from the depths and lurked now, so close…
“Cob,” said Lerien earnestly, closing the distance, “you can't just ignore this. I won't lie to you; what you fear is true. It is there, waiting for you to let it in again, and if you do, you won't be able to stop it. There's no Light left to drive it away. But you can’t be afraid of all powers. You've let Enkhaelen teach you a bit of magic—“
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 55
