“Some sort of communication from Archmagus Enkhaelen, the Emperor's monster-maker.”
“Well, even moreso then. Lead on.”
He nodded and headed for the open archway into the concrete hall beyond. This was the Shadow sector, more warren-like and bewildering than Blaze Company's area, but over the last week or so he'd visited it often enough to know his way around. Had perhaps spent more time here than in his own sector. Whatever that said about him, he hoped it was taken as just familiarizing himself with allies, not somehow defecting from his company's service to theirs. He was still accessible to his men, just not always physically.
None of them had followed him to the sparring room. His officers had their own concerns: evaluating and integrating the captive Seething Brigaders, keeping the training regimen up, continuing their outreach toward their refugee 'neighbors'. Those were not Sarovy's forte; while he could judge, intimidate or discipline with a look, he had a hard time reaching out gently, or speaking reassurances. Right now, that was what they needed—his own men as well as the civilians. More than three weeks had passed since they'd seen the Light fail and been brought down into these depths, and even if they were secure and warm and fed, there was no denying the undercurrent of fear. For themselves, their families, the world.
They didn't have an interest in understanding the Shadows as more than card-game partners and grudging benefactors. He did.
“Any word on those letters?” he said as he walked, the Enforcer flanking him.
“Most were delivered, though there are a few we're still working on. Not many were in a position to reply yet. We have them monitored. I thought your men would prefer to get the news through written responses rather than our observations.”
“How many are in danger?”
She gave a short laugh. “All of us, captain. But none were in dire peril that we didn't relocate immediately. They might not like where they've been settled, but they'll live.”
“So the reports of the eruption in the Khaeleokiels, and the disasters…?”
“There's a whole operation looking into it, from all four Offices, but there's been damage all down the line, not just in Imperial territory. It even flooded a bit here in Bahlaer—that area they call the Morass. Anyway, I gave them the list of names, Wynds and Darronwayn, and they've gotten back to me on all the Darronwayn.”
“But not the Wynds.”
“Right, so we've been holding the replies back. Rather tell them that this takes time than let a few get their messages while others don't even have verification of safety.”
Sarovy grimaced, but nodded. Sometimes it was better not to know.
Which was why he'd sent no request of his own. Twelve years and a death put too much distance between who he was and who he once had been. Irsa… She would have moved on. She must have. There was no way for him to return.
“So no pain?” Ardent asked.
It took him a moment to reorient himself on what she meant. “No, just the impact. Like...I am the padding. I absorb it but there is nothing to feel.”
“And that wrist thing?”
“Triggered the voices, but not much. The Scryer's reinforcements are holding. For now, it seems that if I believe I can do it...I can.”
She gave a huff of interest, and he caught her eyes on him sidelong. “And it's just pain you don't feel, yes? Like those...what was it, ruengriin? They still feel other things, else they wouldn't be after the prostitutes.”
“I...yes, I do feel other sensations. Weight, temperature, pressure...”
“Pleasure?”
His mouth opened, then shut. He could feel her still looking at him—could have watched her from the side of his face, if he'd wanted. He didn't. He'd figured out how to push past the template his winged-light pendant provided, to do things like twist his arm beyond the human point of strain or see through his fingertips, but always it brought those voices to the fore. The ghosts of his fellow victims, entrapped in this flesh, bleeding through whenever it forgot it was Sarovy.
It is a relevant question, he told himself. There is nothing untoward going on.
No matter that he now spent most of his time in her company. No matter that they had a half-played game of turnabout sitting on his desk, waiting for the next session. No matter that she was the only one in ages he'd been able to consider both equal and safe—not a sheltered subordinate or a rivalrous fellow officer, not an enemy or a potential betrayer. They had an understanding. It was…
Pleasant? A laughable answer, and not the right word, but he didn't want to touch upon any others.
“I wouldn't know,” he said finally.
“That's a shame. Bad enough to rob someone of pain—though I suppose since you mend easily, you don't need it. The ruengriin, it could kill them. Not that they seem to care.”
He snorted. “This is why they have not been allowed on missions. We cannot have them reckless, not while Messenger Cortine is still comatose. For all his crimes, at least he could mend them. I would spare him just for that.”
“If your vanished Light still lets him heal them.”
“Yes.”
She made a doubtful sound but didn't object. He had the sense that, given a good reason, she would accept almost anyone into the fold. There was certainly enough of a mix in her own ranks and among those they protected. Light-followers, godfollowers, spiritists, ogre-bloods, goblins, mages, elementals, and his own foreigners and specialists… It was a daunting melange, but she never batted an eye.
“What do you think this is about?” she said abruptly. “I hadn't thought you had such high connections.”
“Not officially, but he—“ The words caught in his throat: that memory of rising from the Palace's hive, of his mirror-image devouring him. Of the Archmagus there, observing. “He is the Maker, and had a hand in assembling our company. He said that we were made for the Crown Prince's use. Perhaps that time has come. I have many questions for him.”
“I'm sure. Can he be trusted?”
“No. But I will accept that he is on the Crown Prince's side.”
“And you trust him?”
He caught her evaluating look and nodded. “If I cannot, then I have no one else to follow. I have not always agreed with him, but I believe that he's had our best interests in mind.”
“As Imperials?”
“As...humans. He resisted the conversion mandate strongly.”
She made a thoughtful sound, then fell silent, keeping pace with him easily. The meeting-room had been moved to the borderland between Shadow and expanded Blaze Company territory, near the offices his lieutenants had been given, so that by the time they arrived, the chamber was already crowded with alerted personnel. Officers and agents withdrew from the entryway as they approached, giving them a clear path; Enforcer Ardent hung back just a step to let him precede.
Slipping in, he absorbed the scene at a glance: the conference table pushed to the far wall, displaced chairs cluttering the space behind the mages as they situated a long horizontal mirror on the tabletop. His and Ardent's staff stood in clusters along the walls, waiting; he picked out all four of his lieutenants, several sergeants, a scout, Ardent's two lieutenants, and three of his four mages—Tanvolthene not in attendance. Nor was the young apprentice, Izelina. He appreciated that judgment call.
In the mirror, meanwhile, were two disparate images. A slice of oddly lit cavern took up most of the space, with two men in the forefront, visible from the chest up; at the far end, a woman peered out from a circle painted right on the mirror, the backdrop behind her indicative of a building's interior. She was olive-skinned and black-haired like some ogre-bloods, while one of the men was dusky and youngish and very rumpled, and the other—
Sarovy sucked in a breath. Though he recognized that face from the Crimson camp and his Palace vision, the Archmagus had changed. No longer was he pale as death; his skin had browned to a Riddishman's or perhaps a northern Illanite's tone, making his icy eyes stand out all the more starkly. The
re was something feral in his gaze, and in the flash of his teeth as he spoke to the attending mages, entirely different from the dry controlled mien he'd presented in the Palace. Coupled with his tangled hair and the blanket bunched around him, Sarovy had difficulty connecting this figure to the mage who had set his task.
If the others were troubled by the change, it didn't show: he and Magus Presh were talking animatedly in Talishan while Scryer Yrsian and Magus Voorkei conversed with the ogre-blood woman in Gheshvan and drew sigils on the mirror with fine brushes. The scryer glanced back, pointed to a chair set behind the mages' posts, then returned to the discussion.
Sarovy looked to Enforcer Ardent, who gave an eloquent shrug and moved to take her own seat.
Though he knew he should do the same, Sarovy couldn't manage it. Internal tension kept him upright, gaze fixed on the Archmagus' features. The occasional sidelong glance told him that the mage had seen him too, but he didn't break off his Talishan conversation, leaving Sarovy with nothing coherent to hear until a voice at his side exclaimed, “Oh Morgwi's buttcheeks, Cob?”
The dusky young man straightened from his bored slouch to stare past Sarovy. “Lark? Thank pikes, I thought you were— Are you all right? What's goin' on, why're you with the army?”
“I don't think this is the army anymore,” said the orange-clad Shadow woman, brushing by. Sarovy glanced from her to the young man, frowning; the name 'Cob' was dimly familiar, and under further scrutiny, so was he. “Where's everyone else? Das, Fiora, Arik?”
The young man grimaced. “Arik's on a mission. Fiora...left with some others. Das… I'm sorry, Lark.”
Her eyes widened. “No. She can't have—“
“It's the Palace's fault. The Emperor's. He empowered them all. When he disappeared, they...” His gaze dropped. “I think it broke them. Y'know how bound up in it she was.”
“I saw it happen to the city, but I didn't think… She was always so strong!”
The young man's face tightened, and in that moment, Sarovy recognized him. Their original quarry, the one they'd crossed paths with so fleetingly—and as an antlered, stone-skinned spirit-monster at that. Cobrin son of Dernyel.
So Enkhaelen was involved with him as well?
That failed pursuit felt distant now, unreal—a detail from someone else's life. Had it only been two months? It felt like an eternity. The trail to Bahlaer, the manifestation, the race through the plainsland and the massacre at Riftwatch…
All just a prologue to this, his real work.
“Captain?”
The scryer's voice cut through his rumination, and he looked up to find her attention—and the Archmagus'—fixed on him. “He wants a few words before we get started,” she said, beckoning.
Cautiously, Sarovy stepped forward, regarding the Archmagus through the glass. That lightning-like wildness still brightened his eyes, and his pupils were great dark holes, unnerving. He showed his teeth in something that might have been a grin but could just as easily indicate intent to bite.
“Captain Sarovy,” he said. “You look surprisingly intact, all things considered.”
“Archmagus. I think we have both seen better days.”
Enkhaelen smirked. “Oh yes. But if I'm right, we'll see more soon enough. Before that, I just wanted to check on the status of your company. With all that's gone on...”
“The Emperor's disappearance,” he echoed. “Or so your young friend said.”
The Archmagus shot a look toward Cob, who had shifted to the edge of the mirror to speak quietly with Lark. “He shouldn't have mentioned it so casually, but I suppose it's no secret. Yes, the Emperor is...gone, to put it simply. The Palace has collapsed. Can I assume that your specialists followed suit?”
Sarovy closed his eyes, seeing again the dark street outside the garrison, the fallen White Flames, his own distressed men. His near-dissolution. “Yes. We felt the Light flee. Not all of us survived it.”
“Not all? That's a good sign. Numbers?”
Rage flashed through him, and he leaned in to snarl at the Archmagus from up close. “Good? You call that 'good'? I saw them writhe and foam and suffer—“
“But the dead are in the minority. Or am I incorrect?”
For a moment he thought he might punch the mirror, but he forced his gaze down from that unflinching stare and made a mental count. “Twenty-four of forty-seven have survived, though in a weakened state. Plus myself.”
“Well. Fifty percent isn't bad. If you have a more detailed breakdown of the survivors—ruengriin versus aenkelagi versus controllers, et cetera...“
“Two controllers survive, out of five. The rest, I would have to consult the roster.”
“Whenever you can. And your own experience?”
“I would rather not speak of it here,” he said through clenched teeth. “Is this all you want of me?”
“Oh no, hardly. Not if you've remembered. But I suppose it's not relevant right this instant, so—where are you currently located?”
“The city of Bahlaer, in a Shadow Folk enclave. I do not know the specifics.”
“Blast, not the Kanrodi camp? I'd have thought he would've recalled his troops.”
“We mutinied.”
Enkhaelen blinked. “Against Kelturin? Why?”
“No. Against Field Marshal Rackmar.”
“Kelturin hasn't retaken his army?”
Slow dread seeped into Sarovy's veins. “Not to my knowledge. You expected him to?”
“He left to do so right after the banishment of the Light. How recent is your information?”
“As up-to-date as the Crimson garrison here can provide. A few days' delay, perhaps.”
“And you've had no news of the Prince?”
“None.”
The Archmagus' face tightened, that brightness hardening into a contained fury. “Flame and ruin,” he hissed. “I thought Rackmar was done for, but if he slipped away first… You're certain he's in charge?”
“All reports indicate it.”
“Then that piker has the Prince. Either caged or already executed.”
The words hit Sarovy like a slap. “Absolutely not. Whatever Field Marshal Rackmar's flaws, he is loyal to the Throne and—“
“The Throne is empty. The Light is gone. And you have gravely misjudged that man, captain, because he has never been loyal. He mouths the words, but he rewrites them behind closed doors to suit himself—his own delusional interpretation of his god's glory. He won't accept Kelturin as the new Scion of the Light, not when Kel has always been hostile to the faith. I'm surprised he hasn't already tried to crown himself.”
“That would be treason.”
“It's what I'd do.”
“You are not the same. It is foolish to judge him blindly from afar. But according to the men we've captured, he claims that the Emperor has gone into seclusion to call back the Light. Is that not—?“
“Accurate, no. It's a bald-faced lie. He was there when the assault occurred, even if he didn't see the fall.”
“If I may… Assault?”
Enkhaelen flashed a fierce smile. “Yes. I and mine took Aradys down and closed the Portal. Banished him from this world. Unfortunately he did something to make the actual godsforsaken sun go out along with him, so...”
“I… We have been informed that there has been no sunrise since Darkness Day, but—”
“I believe I know why. But your specialists, are they continuing to suffer? Or have they stabilized?”
Sarovy considered it. “Stable, I think. At least, I have heard no complaints from those up and about, and the convalescents are slowly recovering. However, I—” He cut that line of thought off. “However, Enlightened Messenger Cortine is still comatose. He collapsed during the incident, tore his own eyes out.”
“Palace thread eyes?”
“Is that what they are? Then yes. White fibrous material, much like the White Flame armor. We have a few of those as well, but they are in good health.”
“Interesting.
I wish I had more time to gather data and examine the affected, but...” The Archmagus glanced toward the other mages, who were putting the finishing touches on the mirror under the direction of the ogre-blooded woman. “That can wait.”
“I still have questions.”
“While I commend curiosity in general, captain—“
“My men deserve a full report,” said Sarovy levelly. He had no intention of being brushed off, not after so long. “Please explain what you mean by the Emperor being banished.”
In the mirror, the Archmagus made a face, but all eyes were on him now—even the mages'—and he seemed to yield to that. “I'll be brief. The Emperor wasn't human; he was the Outsider, an energy-based entity whom I let through the Seals four centuries ago. Possibly none of the Emperors were human, just him faking his death periodically to put a 'son' on the Throne. He built his power-base around the Seal of Air in Daecia and spread his influence from there, I think because it was the closest Seal to a real population center but also probably to spite me. He took the symbols of the Khaeleokiel Firebird and my Ravager as his own, to rally more to his cause, then slowly squeezed the meaning from them. Your Risen Phoenix Light is a fabrication; that pendant you wear has my wings. And now he's locked out, but so is the sun. I think I know why. Can we get back to that, please?”
“They call you the Maker. You crafted all of us?”
Enkhaelen sighed. “I designed your templates. The Palace transformed you—most of you. Some, I did by hand. I was a prisoner, then a collaborator, yes, and I set the failure rate; the deaths of the failed converts are on my head. I did what I thought was necessary. But you can rake me over the coals later; now is the time for business. Drakisa, are we connected?”
Sarovy opened his mouth to object again, but the ogre-blooded woman said, “Yes, I see you all. The sync is set.” She had a rolling Gejaran accent, and the gaze she turned on the crowd was mild but evaluating. “Now who are these, your Imperial friends?”
“Voorkei is one of yours, a Senivaten agent. Magus Presh is a former journeyman of the Taradzureni college and a heretical astronomer. The rest are Blaze Company, who have apparently rebelled against the Crimson Army, and...Shadow Folk, and...” Enkhaelen squinted, then pointed at Scryer Yrsian. “You were Kel's lover, I recall. Oh, and you're one of Cob's friends. I didn't know you were a mage.” That to Lark.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 70
