He reached thin needles of power into the Metal Seal in his chest. It flared with silvery light, and he felt the weight of it shift off his shoulders, unkinking the wing that had held it in place for so long. Its setting burned beneath him, invisible but insistent as magnetism. If he wanted, he could just release his hold and let it slam into place.
But he could do worse. So much worse.
This mountain was stitched through with silver, from its roots deep in the earth to its pinnacle here. Though he had lost the favor of the metals, he could still feel through metallic substances—still weave filaments of his soul down into them, passing like electricity from wire to wire until all the mountain was an extension of his power. The Muriae mingled and conspired inside his net, their hatred of magic robbing them of the ability to see it. Only their goddess could stop him if, weighted by the impact of the Seal, he tried to shatter their sacred mountain.
Even elementals would suffer when crushed by billions of tons of rock.
Jessamyn wouldn't want that.
He flinched. She wouldn't have wanted any of his actions since her death—and he'd known that, but he'd done them anyway because his wrath had exceeded his love of her. Because without her, he had no anchor to such petty things as morality.
Now his wrath was spent. The sword hung at his side again, a nagging reminder of his crimes, and his daughter was out there somewhere, seeking him. He'd faced his in-laws—something he'd feared for centuries—and found the event far less...eventful than his imagination had painted. Now, standing above the Metal Seal with all its harvested power in his hands, he felt like he was hovering above the Citadel at Valent again, watching the archmagi scuffle like ants over crumbs.
It hadn't mattered. None of this effort, this fury, had gained him a thing. His enemies were ghosts, mirages, malicious whispers—rumors, intimations. The Blood Goddess? The Nightmare God?
Nothing was how he'd figured it. Four hundred years and he'd only managed to detect the enemy right in front of him, never thinking that something as great and bright as Aradys might be dancing on another's strings. He'd let himself be led by his own rage, his spite—and now he was here, with the taste of it like ashes in his mouth.
Played. By gods, by wraiths, by his own false assumptions.
I have to be better. Stop indulging the petulant, violent child I was and be the man who stood with her. The one she died to save. I did it once. I can do it again—can't I?
Except he didn't know how. Her love had always amazed and bewildered him, and as he looked down at his radiant hands, he couldn't imagine returning to that time, that previous self. He'd fled so far, and into such chaos.
I'm tired, Jess. I'm so tired.
But that was no excuse. He'd been worse-off before: bound, chained, brutalized. He'd managed then, and he would manage now, even if he didn't know where he was going. Even if all he could do was move through darkness in search of some speck of light.
Wait. Light…
He looked up, up, up at Howling Spire, a half-formed realization itching at the back of his mind. The titanic structure wasn't solid, the great cords twining together in an open weave that let it sway in a controlled fashion under even the strongest of storm-winds. Its very pinnacle was empty, leaving a black circle of night sky ringed by lightning-lit silver.
That view made his brain tingle. Memories flickered up like projections, comparisons: the well, a casting circle, the Seals, a scry-view, a telescope's glimpse of a solar eclipse—
The sun. The sun.
Revelation flared, connecting one thought to another. Scraps of conversations, calculations, the cries of an asylum-seeker, old banned histories, folk-stories, the heresies of astronomers, the Palace's shifting resonance, the Long Darkness. He held a puzzle in pieces, but already he could see a framework to it—a trail, not so different from the one he'd left while erasing the old magics from the Silent Circle's memory. There was a structure that held this darkness in place. A trick he'd missed.
He had people to consult.
Thoughts churning, he lowered his gaze from that black vision to the task at hand. The Metal Seal hung heavy in his grip, but against the blaze of this revelation, it meant nothing. Still, he had an obligation, and he'd promised Cob that he'd fulfill it as gently as possible.
Spreading his wings for stability, he lowered the Seal toward its setting until he was down on one knee, soul strained hard by its pull. Electricity crackled wildly from the floor to his shoulders, engulfing him in a magnetic storm that bent aside from the power in his hands. Inch by inch, he lowered it, until he could go no further.
The silver cords reconfigured themselves beneath him.
The sigils of the Air Seal had been traced in smoke and wind, the Fire Seal in magma. Unlike them, Metal remembered. It rewrote itself beneath him in circles and spikes, whorls and pictograms: the work of a long-dead colleague following Kuthrallan Vanyaris' design. He felt that former Ravager stir as if to confirm that all was well, and then subside; the wraith had its own strange second life to attend to in the subspace of Enkhaelen's soul.
Enkhaelen waited until the last cord had stilled, then pressed the Seal back into place.
It was like dropping a boulder into a pond, the grand sigils obliterated as every cord and wire heaved away from the point of impact. The surge threw Enkhaelen into the air, where he snapped out his skeletal wings and did his best to gain altitude over the shuddering, shrieking chaos of the silver floor. It expanded in ripples to the walls of the gouge, then shivered up the huge structure, loose wires lashing like grass in a storm, twined cables singing as they bucked and swayed, limbs unlacing and clashing in wild abandon.
And as the circle that bound the black sky separated, the lightning came. One bolt, lancing its wrath down the network of the south side—then another, striking the east, and another, searing the pinnacle to the north. Arcs of electricity jumped from structure to structure, painting spiderwebs in the darkness, each crack of voltage like a drum-beat to the skull. Another came, and another, in forking torrents of fire, the temperature rising, the air so thick with static he could feel it popping in his throat.
He couldn't help himself. The half-reservoir held by the black sword was empty, drained by its exposure to the well, and he was alive, free, as whole as was possible. One last heave of wings took him to the center of the Spire's hollow interior, then he extended the third wing straight back for balance and opened himself to the lightning.
*****
An emptiness opened at Cob's back. No—in it, the black door written now upon his skin. He lost track of everything between shoulder-blades and hips, the space there just empty, the thunder of his heart silenced as hollowness caressed the insides of his ribs and tickled its way up his throat. Lerien's talons were in his shoulders, but it wasn't enough. Brine filled his mouth; salt itched at the corners of his eyes.
Then came the surge, making the silver cords thrash and writhe against the rock. The sound shocked through his skull hard enough to drive back the darkness, and he clasped his arms over his ears and bent almost double in self-defense. Beneath him, the crystal-grains in the stone glowed like lamps; he could feel them pop and sizzle under his knees as they discharged into him, flooding energy through his legs to his chest where it was sucked down through the conduit. There was no waterfall now, no current to fight, just the pouring flow.
With so much power crackling across his frame, the hollowness could not advance—and so he trembled there, his self a soap-bubble caught between the lightning and the emptiness, his will and Lerien's strength all that kept him from complete dissolution. His nerves burned with phantom sensation, his mouth full of the taste of metal and char—but on the inside, in the empty space, there was calm. Quiet.
Part of him longed to fall into it and be washed by the numbing waves. Could he use it? Pull it on like a coat and wear it instead of letting it wear him?
A thought for another time, because as the current slowed, he felt the Void press f
orward to glove itself in his flesh. This time, he didn't try to fight it. Instead, he opened his eyes and raised his head, peeling his arms from his ears. Stimuli thrust themselves into his senses: the continued creak and wail of the slowing cables, the shine of captured lightnings, the wind that wafted chaotically between searing-hot and ice-cold. The solidity of the rock beneath his knees, the tang of ozone on his tongue. The glimmer of the cloud-serpent's wings just under his eyes, incredibly distracting.
The white hawk straining above. The incandescent figure winging toward them.
His heart beat suddenly hard in his throat, sweat springing up on his cheeks, and he pulled in a deep breath and felt his spine creak. The door had closed.
With Enkhaelen en route, he forced himself to his feet, slowly, shakily—unwilling to be caught on his knees. His body protested the work, but Lerien's grip helped, no matter that it was only in his mind. As he steadied, those sheltering wings dissipated, the talons releasing his shoulders.
Thank you, he thought at his friend.
An acknowledgment returned—but wordless, faint. Too faint.
Even as he realized that, Enkhaelen alighted, still radiant with power and stinking of lightning. His wings were too bright to look at, but after a moment he folded them away, allowing Cob to glimpse the unhealthy gleam in his eyes. He gave Cob only the briefest nod before lancing the spokesmetal with his gaze. “Take us back. I need space, I need mirrors, I need Drakisa!” he demanded, the words tumbling from his tongue in a rush.
The spokesmetal tilted its head. “Mirrors?”
“For magic. Scrying. I know, whine whine, I'll taint you with my horrid powers, but you have to have dead silver somewhere—or bronze, or I don't even care, just something reflective that isn't water. I can get it from Drakisa if you're utterly incapable of providing, but I'm going to cast spells while I'm here, and if you complain, it will not end well for—“
“Enkhaelen,” Cob cut in quickly before the necromancer's mounting mania could spark a fight. “What d'we need scryin' for?”
Enkhaelen rounded on him, eyes wide and bright, unblinking. “I had a revelation. I know what's happened to the sun. But I need to consult. I need my astronomer, Presh. Precious Presh. And for that I need a mirror, mirror-like, anything. Anything. The sun, Cob, the sun!”
“The sun...what?” he said, holding up his good hand in an uneasy attempt to quell the man.
Enkhaelen grinned. “The sun, the sun—“
A silver mass rose up and grasped him from behind, wrapping him up like a cocoon. Cob shot a nervous look at the spokesmetal, but it was already falling into its own carrier; a moment later, another closed itself around Cob.
Chapter 24 – Precipice
Captain Sarovy raised his sword in salute, and his opponent did the same with her kukri. Both were encased in practice padding, laced tight along the blunt sides, but they were still heavy enough to hurt. Thus why Enforcer Ardent wore her standard armor.
“You're sure about this?” she asked, her other kukri held horizontal in readiness. Her black hair was coiled flat under her helmet, just the tip of the scorpion braid showing at the back.
Sarovy adjusted his shield with an absent heft and nodded. “I need to know.”
“Well, it's your suffering.”
“On my mark,” said their referee, another Shadow agent. “Ready...set...mark.”
For a moment, neither moved, only the flick of eyes and the shift of weight betraying their intentions. Then Sarovy stepped forward—against his own tendency to watch and retaliate but in concert with his self-appointed task. To know himself. To be present in this flesh.
It was dangerous, but also necessary. He could not rely on wards alone, for they were impermanent. He had to take the reins of his monstrous self so it could not escape him in a moment of lapse.
Scryer Yrsian had given him the all-clear for it, so he would see where his limits lay.
Ardent moved when he did, diagonal to his stride, already turning for his sword-side. Her kukris didn't have the reach of his borrowed sword, but she was quicker on her feet and used to harrying foes—not like his infantry training, shield-to-shield. A few quick hacks and she was already out of range again, having hit nothing due to his retreat but leaving him no opening either.
“Won't get much information if you dodge,” she said, circling, kukris back at the ready. He'd already seen how easily she could take on one sword, redirecting it with the curve of her blade while the other came in for a chop; there was another Shadow agent on the sidelines nursing a nasty bruise from one. Even with padding, she hit hard.
He'd given her permission to go all-out, and from the gleam in her eyes as she circled, she took it seriously. He could tell she wanted to slip behind him, but the shield daunted her; it was as unusual to her experience as knife-fighting was to his.
He kept pace with her, twitched at a feint, then drove in for his own strike—only to lose her around his shield-side, not what he'd expected. He backstepped, swinging around in defense, and felt the wrapped blade slam into the shield's edge where his shoulder had just been. Still she was moving around him, boots scudding across the padded floor, and he wrenched himself around and back just in time to block another strike to the arm.
Her face clenched within its helmet-frame, black eyes blazing. He tried to take advantage of her pause with a lunge of his own, but she was sidestepping, pushing the sword wide—
He wrenched his shield into the gap, felt the kukri strike it and then her weight. Feet braced, the impact shivered through but did not move him, and when she tried to twist his wrist via their locked blades, there was no pain. He let it turn unnaturally, ignoring the expected rush of voices, and lurched forward, keeping the shield against her as the padded sword slid from her clench and slammed into her upper leg.
With an oath, she shoved off, then sprang at him again, clipping the edge of his shield with her armored shoulder enough to throw him off his guard. One blade arrowed in at his neck; the other struck his hip a glancing blow before he shoved her away.
“Hurt?” she called, dancing back. It sounded more like a taunt than concern.
He considered it. He'd felt the contact, but— “No.”
“More?”
“Keep trying.”
She grinned at him, all teeth, then skittered back in, landing a hard overhand strike on the rim of his shield to push him back. He jabbed; she dodged, cut for his arm; he swiveled, swatted at her; she went the other way again as if determined to sever his spine.
Not that he had one.
It was like fighting a wasp, all maneuvering and sting. He admired that. A part of him wanted to throw aside the shield and pick up a second blade, a long dagger—to dance with her in her style, adding his own Trivestean duelist steps. But he had been rusty at that even before his death, too much time spent among the scouts and surveyors, and now it was as lost to him as the sword he'd trained with. Broken as all his bonds.
She struck him a hard line along the shoulder and stepped back with a curse—for him or herself, he couldn't tell. “Don't ruminate! I said I'd only do this if you fought.”
“Yes,” he said, blinking away the dour thoughts. None of his men would raise a hand to him, though whether from respect or fear of his new nature, he couldn't tell. Nor would any of the Shadows cross blades with him—or talk to him, really, unless they were relaying messages. They didn't seem afraid, just businesslike, yet they were willing enough to scuffle with his men.
Ardent, though… She'd just quirked her brows at his request, then shrugged and reached for her blade-harness. He appreciated that.
Appreciated how she didn't look away, how she listened—how she spoke, direct and often terse but never pitying, never false. How she didn't flinch from his confessions about himself and the Empire, as if she'd heard worse things, or stranger. How—
“Captain, if this isn't a good time...”
He blinked, realizing he'd turtled up with his shield and had just been w
atching her circle. Frustration etched long lines on her face, twisting her scar more than usual. A tingle went through him as he realized what he'd been thinking, and he opened his mouth, trying to frame an excuse that wouldn't end this spar.
The earhook he wore pulsed suddenly, making him straighten in alarm. Scryer Yrsian's voice followed: 'All officers to the meeting-room, please. Shadow associates welcome.'
“What is it, Scryer?” he said, cueing the earhook to pick it up. Before him, Enforcer Ardent tilted her head, then beckoned at one of the spectators, who hustled over to offer her own earhook back.
'Contact from the Archmagus Enkhaelen. Apparently he and Presh and Voorkei are all on speaking terms!'
Sarovy's brows rose. He'd known Voorkei had some connection to the man, but not how or why, and with all the recent Imperial revelations, he had no idea where any of this fit.
More than that, Archmagus Enkhaelen was the specialists' Maker. His own supposed salvager. Was it about them? Did they have orders?
The thought made his heart lift. He squelched it deliberately. The upper echelon of the Empire had betrayed the people it purported to serve, had corrupted and defiled and murdered them, had twisted their minds and poisoned their hearts. He would not bow to Imperial orders again. If the Archmagus thought his status gave him some cachet with Blaze Company, Sarovy would have to disabuse him of that.
And get some answers.
“Enforcer, you'll attend?” he said as he shrugged off his shield and offered it and the practice sword to an agent. Another offered his swordbelt back and he buckled it on, automatically loosening the upper half of the broken blade in its setting. Militant habits died hard, but he wouldn't leave his heirloom blade behind, even if it had been rendered unusable.
“Absolutely. Attend what?” She was just putting the hook back on, her aide holding the helmet and kukris; against her dark skin and darker hair, the silver arc gleamed like a scar.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 69
