“You think the wraiths kept it secret from him?” Ardent started, then snorted. “Right, of course they did. Your Empire was built on obfuscation—and he's a priest. He wouldn't care to hear that his god was a lie.”
The captain shot her an unreadable look, then addressed the scryer. “Yrsian, check Rallant to see if he has been contacted, then lock down his mind as best you can. Small breach or not, we cannot let this continue.”
“It might be too late,” Ardent interjected. “And Mako can't cover him while we're on the assault. I think it would be smarter to assume he's already been contacted and just keep watch on him—see if anything else happens. No more visits, though. I'll have the detention block cleared so he has no one to influence.”
Grudgingly, Mako stated, “I've got enough spells I'm maintaining without adding a remote mind-block. Observation might be best. If we're letting him live.”
Linciard tensed, then silently cursed himself for it. If his feelings were actually a change Rallant had made in him… But the captain was nodding. “As an information asset, he is still of use to us.”
“I'll get it cleared then,” said Ardent, and moved to the privacy screen in the corner, stepping around it to vanish into the shadows.
Mako tracked her, then looked back to Sarovy, frowning. “This is a bad idea. I understand keeping him as an asset, but that doesn't mean we need to keep him here. He could still be useful from far, far away. Like Gejara.”
“Make that request the next time you contact Mistress Snowfoot,” Sarovy answered. “I will support it. But for now, we continue on schedule. Linciard… By Scryer Yrsian's request, you will remain in command of your platoon, but if you feel disoriented or influenced at any time, I expect you to remand yourself to your men's custody and turn control over to Sergeant Kenner. Further disciplinary action may be taken later.”
Linciard nodded grimly. “Yes sir.”
“Now stop making trouble for me and get some rest—both of you. Dismissed.”
Linciard gave a stiff salute and turned immediately to push out through the door. He heard Mako voice some further complaint in his wake, heard the captain's repeated dismissal, then the sound of slippers scuffing after him.
A hand touched his arm and he pulled away.
“Don't be like that,” Mako scolded, catching for him again. “I'm just trying to do my job.”
Linciard bit back a dozen foul words and halted, turning toward her. “I know,” he gritted out, “but that doesn't make me happy.”
“And what does? Getting yourself wrapped around some thrall-maker's finger?” She puffed a lock of hair from her eyes and stared up at him with an expression he knew far too well. Exasperation, concern, pity. “I know you care for him, and he does have some kind of emotional attachment to you. But you can't let it distract you.”
Linciard scowled, fighting against the flutter those words gave him. “Do I really care for him, though? Or is it just what he did to me that makes me think so? I'm not stupid, Mako. I know why you didn't tell me. You figured I'd have a crisis.”
“Which you are.”
“No I'm not, I'm—“
“Angry, betrayed, doubtful? Listen to me, Erolan Linciard. No matter how either of you feel, he has his hooks in you, and his handlers have hooks in him. A twitch of will from either end and you'll be begging at his feet, believing you love him. I'm not saying you should sympathize, because I certainly don't—and I'm not saying this isn't his fault, because it is. Just...understand that whatever happens, it's probably not personal.”
He stared at her, baffled. Did she think he was going to fling himself onto his bed and weep? Or run off to release Rallant—or kill him? No matter the knot of bitter longing in his heart, the mantra remained. Blaze Company first.
“It's fine,” he muttered.
She eyed him a moment longer, then shrugged. “Do as you will. Just don't cry at me if things go wrong.”
With that, she stalked off down the hall, and he turned toward his own quarters. He had a lot of thinking to do, and a new resolution: Let go of him.
Easier said than done.
*****
Sarovy closed his eyes and took a few slow, deliberate breaths. The human necessity of them always helped to ground him, even though they served no purpose anymore. Slowly, the whispers faded into the background, just a distant susurrus of souls.
“Captain? You all right?”
He looked up, trying to school his expression to neutrality but unsure how well he'd succeeded. Against his chest, the winged-light pendant throbbed, its dim radiance clear to him despite its covering of uniform coat and tunic. He tasted fabric, leather, metal—all his gear—and saw through his fingertips, his palms...
Then the moment of synaesthesia popped, the framework of his world snapping back into place, and he blinked with eyelids that felt like themselves again. For the moment.
“Yes, fine,” he said, ignoring the rasp in his voice.
The look Enforcer Ardent leveled upon him was anything but convinced. A few eiyets still crowded her shoulders, hissing, and for a moment the whispers surged up again as if in response. He pushed them down like he'd once swallowed nausea, when he still felt such things.
“You look like shit,” she said.
That drew a laugh from him, short and startled. “No, truly, I'm fine. I just had a moment.”
“Your face went grey. Tell me something.” She leaned in slightly, black eyes like empty holes, then cocked her thumb toward the door. “Are you being as stupid as him?”
He blinked slowly, wishing he could pretend it wasn't a deliberate action. Wishing he couldn't feel the outline of his self imprinted on every inch of his skin. What do you mean? he wanted to say, but knew it was an insult. She'd seen him at his worst. “No. I hope not.”
“Then what's going on? Is there a problem in the company?”
He looked toward the door as if he could track Linciard through all the stone and concrete between them. “In a way, yes. But it will be managed. You needn't—“
“Don't shrug me off with that. Actually say what's wrong.”
For a moment he considered staying silent, or walking out—but that would be childish. He had always tried to keep his problems internal, but she'd breached that layer of defense a week ago, and with enough force to make him visit Mako. Perhaps he accepted it because they were equals, or because she pushed but did not order. Perhaps it was something else.
Regardless, he felt obligated in a way he never had before.
“I am thinking of the succession,” he said, “and I dislike the way it looks.”
Her black brows climbed. “Succession… I'm assuming you don't mean your Crown Prince.”
“No. To the captaincy.”
“You want to retire? Now?”
“It may be necessary. For all my current stability, there are moments when I...” Dissolve. He couldn't—wouldn't—say that, but it was difficult to look at his own flesh without thinking it. Impossible to look in a mirror. No matter how much he repeated the mantra of his identity, it felt false: a surface constructed around the hollow center where the truth of himself should have been. “It waxes and wanes. At times I feel almost normal, but when I am angry or uncertain...”
“Emotional.”
“Yes. I feel the reins slip a little. Scryer Yrsian's mental wards have kept my template in place, but I cannot rely on her forever. She believes that with practice, with discipline, I can hold myself together, but there has been no time.”
“There will be,” said Ardent, hands on hips. Her black eyes bored into him, the concern gone to sternness, confidence. He wanted to reflect it, but that very urge made his boundaries waver. “We'll get through this and talk to your Archmagus again, make him fix it. After all, it's his fault. He's some sort of necromancer, right? So he should be able to strip out those extra souls, make it just you in there. Give you total control. It doesn't seem like a bad body to have as long as it's wholly yours.”
; He couldn't keep the surprise from his face, and saw her mouth quirk in response. “I… Perhaps it has its benefits,” he said quickly, “in the arena of combat or for...espionage purposes, but it is not human. It is not—“
“You're human. Isn't that enough?”
No. Not after killing Serinel. Not after seeing the blood soak into me, or feeling the bone-shards inside, and the hair, and the teeth. But he couldn't say that either—couldn't find a way to express his disgust in himself and his failures, his pyrrhic victories. Even his surrender to the Shadow Folk still sickened him, no matter that it had secured his men's survival and turned this war on its head.
Worst, he'd felt detached for so long that he wasn't even sure this was his own anger. Since his supposed exile, he'd cultivated a cold professionalism, but then Cortine had tried to make him kneel and shattered that shell in the process. The fury and pain that tormented him now—were they his, or some vengeful urge from the ghosts inside?
He couldn't remember enough about his younger self to be sure.
“Let me tell you, then,” said Ardent. “You are human. You are a man. You are a soldier. You are Firkad Sarovy, captain, comrade, co-commander, and I need you here, not trapped in your head. I know you're troubled. There's no shame in it, not after what you've been through. But you've fought your way out of it before. You've survived and overcome, and this messy little Imperial debacle won't take you down. The only thing that can ruin you right now is yourself, and I won't let you.”
He looked away, not sure whether to be flattered or embarrassed. That taste of fabric and steel floated through his senses again, but he pushed it down, and with it the restless audience of whispers. “I… Thank you. I want to be here. But I cannot ignore the possibility that I will lose myself—if only for a while. I need a solid chain of command, and right now all the links are weak.”
“Well,” she said, and by her tone he guessed that she was swallowing some other comment. Her expression—briefly direct and open—had gone measuring again, eyes hooded as she looked over their maps and game-pieces. “I know Linciard is a problem, but surely your other lieutenants have their merits.”
He shook his head. “Lieutenant Sengith is still against this alliance and has always been slow to adapt. Lieutenant Arlin is a fierce traditionalist and cannot be trusted to think beyond infantry charges. Lieutenant Vrallek… I'd like to think that the men would follow him as they've followed me, but he is an intimidating figure and I don't know his mind as much as I would like. Linciard is more of a supporter than a leader, and compromised. Corporal Kurengenothe, I would consider; it would be a great leap of rank, but he is one of the most experienced men in the company. However, he avoids promotions like the plague and I cannot guess what he would do if he were forced to it.”
“None of your sergeants?”
“Benson is an unimaginative pedant. Kirvanik is solid, but too foreign for the core Heartlands men. Kenner… Competent but not a stand-out. The others are all too new in their roles for me to evaluate yet.” The remnants of the old roster hung in his head like accusatory ghosts. So many lost.
“So you have no replacement. No surprise; you're a singular fellow.”
He cast her a sidelong look, questioning; there was something in her tone again. But she was still considering the maps. “It can be tactically valuable, yes,” he said, “thinking differently, but finding a replacement to provide continuity of effort...”
“You could advise, of course. Unless you think it will get so bad that you can't.”
To be so swarmed by voices that he couldn't concentrate, couldn't help… “Should that time come, I will—“ He cut himself short. Self-destruction was only an option if he became a danger to his men. “I will manage it. This is all simply contingency planning.”
“Of course.”
“And so I hope it is not an overreach for me to ask that you take on the mantle, should I lose the strength for it.”
She looked up at him, blinking. “Me? Hold on—me, take over your company?”
He nodded. It had been an impulse offer, but the more he considered it, the better it seemed. “You are strategic and capable, observant yet aggressive, blunt. We are already resources in your hands, and you have seen how we operate. You understand. Plus I trust that you can manage my lieutenants, and the specialists dare not mess with you; they fear the eiyets too much for that.”
She blinked again. “But—soldiers, I don't know what to do with soldiers...”
“The lieutenants will handle that. You know my goals, and I think you share them; having a successor who will pursue them is the most valuable thing to me. Also, you are friendly with Scryer Yrsian.”
Her lips twitched. “Yes, in a way. And—integration, I do see the worth of that, as much as it can be done. ...Very well, if that's what you want.”
“Yes.”
“Just put it in writing so I don't have to punch half the company into submission.”
Amused, he nodded shortly and moved to the end of the table where their ink-pots and stacks of notes were. She trailed him by a few steps, almost hesitant, then planted herself beside him as he found a blank page and dipped a quill.
“Would that I could offer the same,” she said, “but the Regency would light me on fire for it. Too logistically difficult anyway, since you can't travel the shadows without being attacked.”
“Reciprocation is unnecessary. This is not a gift; it is an assurance of the continuation of command.”
“Still.” She fell silent a moment, lingering at his shoulder as he scribbled out the order, then added, “You know, I've been thinking of kissing you.”
*****
She knew she shouldn't have said that, but the way he looked up at her like a startled bird was almost worth it. Void's Teeth, I have gone crazy.
“That's not something I'd normally do,” she said when he stayed silent, trying to cover her embarrassment. “And certainly not because of this. I think it's because I've spent a month or so just watching you without the excuse of trying to kill you anymore.”
His eyes—that incredible lucid grey—squinted up, his whole face tightening with attempted comprehension. It was so interesting to watch, especially after walking in on him all slack and muddled earlier. Since returning his pendant, she had felt an uneasy fascination toward his substance that, bit by bit, had lost its aversion.
Not that she wanted to touch him—not here, anyway, and not now. She knew what he'd been made to do with his sarisigi substance, and had no desire to provoke a crisis in him.
“Is it pity?” he said at last, in that bone-dry way.
“No. Maybe sympathy, its kinder cousin.” She cursed herself for being flustered already—for babbling, for bursting out with that confession at all. Without his offer, she knew she'd never have said it. She respected him too much to push this on him.
And she'd done it the wrong way; she could tell as he shook his head. “That is kind of you, but not feasible,” he said, turning his attention back to the page. “Even though I am not as married as I once thought, I—“
“That's not how I meant it.” Ugh, words, stupid words. “I'm not here to romance you, though gods know our troops probably think so.” She'd had to shout Ticuo down several times over it, and Scryer Mako's raised eyebrows always seemed to imply it, if not actively urge it.
He glanced at her sidelong, expression back to neutral. “If so, it has not impacted morale. If you think this order would be taken as some sort of tacit acknowledgment, though...”
“Or evidence that I pushed you to it somehow.” She exhaled, trying to focus on business again. “You should discuss it with your lieutenants so it's not a surprise.”
“Of course.”
His tone was formal, his gaze pinned to the paper. She'd wedged her foot down her throat and wasn't pulling it out any time soon.
Pike it all anyway, she thought sourly. This always happened when she got caught up in her enthusiasm for something. People, causes, miss
ions—she chased them all, fast and reckless, until she inevitably crashed into the difference between what she thought of them and what they were. What they wanted of her. That she continued to get attached despite the many times she'd been stung was something the Regency knew well and often exploited, to her fury. She hadn't earned her Shadow name for being dispassionate.
She'd thought she'd turned it against them this time. Connecting with this pained, determined man went against everything the Regency desired. But he didn't see her the same way, and now she just wanted to escape. The shadows were right there; she could excuse herself on any sort of errand, vanish, then come back later with a clear head and realistic expectations of this man. She'd crossed a line, but maybe it could be ignored.
She opened her mouth to make her excuse.
“You know, of course, that it is dangerous,” he said, not looking up.
She blinked, thrown off. “What? The captaincy?”
“No. Kissing me.”
A flush rose, making her glad for the shadow-darkened bronze of her skin. “Yes. Obviously. Not just for me; for you. That's how it takes its victims, correct?”
He set the quill on its stand, regarded the scratchy script, then straightened and turned a half-look in her direction. Those grey eyes met hers like blades, accurate as ever; knowing or not, he always managed to catch her gaze. “Flesh-contact, yes. Usually around the face, for opportunistic and suffocation purposes.”
That raised a shudder. “And you went through it.”
He nodded, just slightly. “I watched my own face form in its substance—felt it draw me out and saw myself through its eyes, dying. That is...insurmountable.”
His gaze slipped down as he said that, and she realized with a jolt that she wasn't at fault—not entirely. She hadn't misread his glances or mistaken his openness. He had needs, too; he just couldn't pursue them without destroying himself.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 75
