“I am well. Do not be concerned,” he said without moving his mouth, voice seeming to echo up from a great distance. It was creepy.
“No, be concerned,” said Fiora. “He told me he spent last night in a tree because the wolves chased him off as soon as you fell asleep.”
“They what?” said Cob, abruptly furious.
Ilshenrir raised a mollifying hand. Unlike the rest of him, his grey gloves still looked real. “It is their right. I am an intruder, one they will not tolerate unless forced. Without your presence, Guardian, I considered retreat the best option.”
“But...a tree?”
“In truth, four trees. They climbed the first three.”
Cob clenched his teeth to avoid a cursing spree. He'd hoped that hunting Enkhaelen down and breaking the bonds that held the Guardian would do away with some of his problems, but they seemed to be multiplying—not just the big issues but smaller ones. Quiet frustrations, secret conflicts, dark thoughts. He needed some time to breathe.
But he knew he wouldn't get it, so he packed the anger back down into the depths. He'd deal with it later.
“I'll talk to them,” he said. “They need to accept that you're under my protection whether I'm awake or not.”
“And me?” said Dasira neutrally.
“What, did they bother you too?”
“No, I'm...just asking.”
He opened his mouth to say of course, but caught himself. Twice she had betrayed him, first as Darilan in the Crimson camp and then in this skin, following at his heels as she conspired with Enkhaelen in secret. She'd said it was for his sake—for his safety—and he believed her, but her idea of his best interest did not match up with his own.
“I can't promise anythin',” he told her, “so don't make trouble.”
Dasira nodded and straightened within her furs as if taking the warning to heart. He wasn't sure whether to be satisfied or saddened by that.
“So what was that last thing you did against the wolves?” said Fiora. She nodded toward the circle of mud. “It looked strange. Not that your Guardian tricks aren't usually strange, but you went blacker than black and then sort of...seeped water, like some kind of wellspring. We felt it from up here. It wasn't comfortable.”
He saw the question in her eyes. Was that the same thing that almost drowned us at the manor?
Not wanting to explain, he shrugged. “Jus' happened.” Which was true enough.
Her eyes narrowed and her full lips compressed slightly, but she shrugged in return. “As long as you know what you're doing.”
“Yeah.”
“So did it work?”
“No.”
“Well...” A strained moment, then she said, “Anyway, we think we figured out the sword.”
Cob flicked a look to the sword slung over her shoulder. Made of Muriae silver, it was the one from the manor tomb—the one that he had lifted from Enkhaelen's dead wife's grip, and that had nearly undone the necromancer's existence. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. While you were doing your wolf thing, we did some tests.” She unshouldered the sword to hold it by the top of the sheath, quillons resting against her fingers. Tilting the hilt toward herself, she said, “Obviously it does nothing to me when I touch it, sheathed or unsheathed. Didn't do anything to you either, right?”
“Right.”
“And it doesn't bother Ilshenrir.” She pointed the hilt at the wraith, who reached out to clasp the pommel with his gloved hand. “Doesn't do anything to his magic unless he tries to cast on it. Spells won't stick.”
“As expected,” noted the wraith. “The Muriae and their ilk are hardened against arcane tampering.”
“And it doesn't bother her either,” said Fiora, pointing the hilt at Dasira, “until it gets close to her bracer. Like this, see...”
She started to reach out with it, but Dasira hissed and stepped back, turning her left side away, and Cob stepped between them before Fiora could pursue her. “Stop,” he said. “If it's dangerous to her...”
“Well, I asked first—“
“And I told you, never again,” snapped Dasira.
“I just want to demonstrate—“
Cob held up a quelling hand. “It's not necessary. That thing almost took apart an ancient necromancer. I don't want to risk it hurting anyone else.”
“But that's my point,” said Fiora, frowning at him. “It took Enkhaelen apart but it didn't do anything to any of us except her, and we know she's his servant.” She tried to point around Cob with the sword but he moved into the way, so she rapped the hilt against his chest in annoyance. “I saw magic come off her bracer like it came off his arm when he was unraveling. That means—“
“We already know he made her. We're not gonna hold that against her.”
“Would you listen already? It means whatever this sword does, it might work against Enkhaelen's magic only.”
He blinked, then looked from the sword to the stubborn set of her face. If that was true, then... “It's specifically hostile to him?”
“I think so. It's not like we've had much to test it against, but—“
“Can he defend against it? Ilshenrir?”
The wraith tilted his head, expression still frozen. “I am not well enough to analyze it, but as I indicated, the Muriae are hardened against arcane power. They breach our spells with ease. If this blade is fixated upon one enemy, perhaps its effect on him is greater.”
A sword of revenge, Cob thought. At the manor, he had walked within Enkhaelen's nightmare and seen what the necromancer had done. That killing spell, refined specifically to destroy Muriae yet finding the wrong target. The spreading flames of horror and despair, the smoke that had choked all who struggled there. The fleeing child...
It was hard to piece together a full picture, and he couldn't say which parts were real and which delusion. But he knew that Enkhaelen had shot his wife in the back by accident, and that she had died. Perhaps that had imbued the sword against him.
He almost wanted to return it to the tomb. Enkhaelen and his wife been defending each other—defending their daughter—against Trifolders, and though he didn't know why, it still felt like a sad, tragic mess. Raising this blade against that man would be like spitting in his eye.
Enkhaelen deserved to die. But by this?
Cob shook his head, trying to cast those thoughts away. He wished he'd never seen the nightmare, never sympathized. He had enough problems already.
“Unfortunately, he knows we have it,” said Fiora. “And he's only ever come to us in corpse bodies. We need to find his real body and kill that, but with this forewarning... Up until now, he's been toying with us, but we've just made it serious.”
“We already know where he is,” said Cob, nodding vaguely north. “The Palace.”
“That's not as helpful as you'd think.”
“It's what we've got.”
She narrowed her eyes at him again and planted a fist on her hip. “It's what the fragment told you in the nightmare, right? How do you know it was telling the truth?”
“I jus' do,” he said, even though he didn't. The ragged monstrosity in the little garret room had claimed to be the Ravager and spoken of its own vendetta against Enkhaelen—its desire to be free of him. But the Guardian hadn't trusted it, so neither could he.
With no other leads, though, the Palace seemed their only option.
“Generations of my people have been swallowed up by that piking place,” said Fiora. “Priestesses, templars, shield-maidens. They tried to march right in, and what did they get for it? Dead. So if that's your plan—“
“Look, I know it's not much yet, but we're gonna work on it, all right? It's not like this is any crazier than the rest of the journey.”
“Yes it is! The wraith spire, Haaraka, Akarridi—they were bad places to be, but we could still get out. No one comes back from the Palace.”
“That's hog-crap.”
“How is it—“
“He's there, Fiora. So we have to
go get him. —I have to go get him. If you don't want to come...”
“You're the important one, Cob. If you want to walk into a trap, I have to be there to drag you out of it. But it would be nice if you'd, y'know, not walk into it in the first place.“
Pinned by her glare, Cob waffled between wanting to kiss her and wanting to shake her until her teeth rattled. That forceful flame was what drew him to her, but sometimes he wished she'd just cooperate.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “But it might not be possible.”
Her shoulders loosened from their aggressive hitch, and she shook her head. “I'm just worried. I mean, we're surrounded by predators. The Ravager's people. So...”
“Speaking of being surrounded,” came Lark's voice from downhill, “look here.”
Cob half-turned to see Lark and Arik on their way back up, Arik in his chiton though his legs were still wolfish. Lark's garments were all rumpled, but she returned a scathing glare to his inquisitive brow-raise, so he guessed it was just from bounding through the woods.
From the trees beyond came the hunting party Cob had seen leaving near the crack of dawn, long before his sparring match.
Even without knowing that mounts and riders were the same folk, it would have been strange to watch men and women ride out of the woods on huge dun-colored wolves. The beasts were bare of saddle or harness, yet the riders perched with confidence, swaying with the motion of their steeds. They wore the minimal garments of the wolf-folk—short breeches or loin-wraps plus a vest or loose tunic—leaving the bulk of their frames covered in fur and their feet in paw-form. A few had hunting-bows or boar-spears, but the rest disdained weapons.
In their wake came five hulking figures, bristle-coated and rusty red. They were thick in the chest and tightly muscled at the shoulders—not broad but dense—with short necks and wide cheeks and beady little eyes, and the way their noses sloped down to nearly mask their mouths made him think of—
Draft-hogs.
Light save me, they're draft-hog kin.
The realization nearly forced a laugh from him, but he swallowed it. They looked mean, whatever they were, and unlike the wolves, they wore armor over their copious body-hair: layers of hardened leather stitched into crude cuirasses and greaves and brow-guards. None wore a full helm, preferring to show off crests of quill-like hair, and between the war-paint and the thigh-thick clubs they carried, they were intimidating enough to back off an ogre.
Slinking along in their lee, almost unnoticed, came a single brindle-furred cat-man.
“Honored one,” called the woman-shaped wolf-rider in the lead, and it took Cob a moment to realize that she had yapped instead of spoken. The Guardian seemed to automatically translate. “We bring to you representatives of the Gnashed Tusk tribe, and of the Shadewalker tribe, to join in war council for your cause.”
Cob nodded slowly. Though the wolves had offered simple hospitality, it was clear that they were as interested in his business as he was in the details of the 'firebird'—as they called Enkhaelen. He didn't want a war, but he wasn't surprised that they did, considering how badly the Empire treated the people at its fringes.
“I welcome them,” he said, figuring he should be polite. Then, with a mental prod for the Guardian, he said it again, hoping the spirit would translate it into wolf-speech. What came from his mouth was a collection of growls and yips, startling despite his expectation.
Several of the man-shaped wolves huffed in amusement, and he flushed, wondering if he had misspoken. The lead wolf inclined her head, though, and the big hog-folk grunted acknowledgment. “We will bring them to a place for their camp,” the wolf said, and nudged her steed lightly, turning the whole group toward the thinner woods to the south.
Cob exhaled through his teeth as he watched them go. A few of the hog-folk dragged sledges full of rolled leather and lumpy cloth—tent material perhaps—and the necessities of camp. The cat-man had nothing but a satchel and a few strings of teeth. His long tail flicked liquidly as he followed the others, unencumbered by even a stitch of clothing.
“Pike me,” murmured Lark, her tone an amazed counterpoint to his apprehension. He glanced back to find her staring after them with an odd half-smile.
“So I guess we're havin' a war council,” he told his friends, and saw their faces change. None looked happy. Not Ilshenrir, still wearing his scars; not Dasira, nearly broken; not Arik, with ears laid back as he watched the other skinchangers pass. Not Lark, despite her intrigue. Not even Fiora, who wanted the Empire to burn.
“But that's not what we're after,” she said, looking up to him for confirmation. “We know what happens to armies that assault the Palace.”
“I guess they don't. We'll—I'll have to explain that. If the rest of you wanna sit it out...” He turned to Ilshenrir. “Maybe you could take Dasira and go into the Grey? If they've been after you all night, and they know what she is, I can't say that you'll be safe at a gathering. And I can't leave you in a cave.”
“Or up a tree,” said Lark wryly. “Maybe we should all wait for you in the Grey. I'd love to eavesdrop on this, but it's not really our place, is it?”
Ilshenrir nodded his acceptance, but Dasira said, “Bad idea.” Her voice was low and rough, unsteady, as if it took effort to piece the words together, but her eyes were pale knives beneath the fur hood. “You need me out here. I worked for him. My knowledge... I can't give it from the Grey.”
“Nor mine, I suppose,” said Ilshenrir faintly. “Skinchangers do not use magic. They will have no perspective on our enemy except as a spirit vessel. You should make no decision without considering him as a whole: Ravager, necromancer, servant of Empire.”
Cob grimaced, imagining the wolves piling onto Ilshenrir in the middle of the council, or a hog-man rushing Dasira with one of those massive clubs. But they were right; he couldn't just tuck them out of the way when they were inconvenient. If that meant getting into a fight...
Not like I haven't done dumber things.
“All right, fine,” he said. “But mind your tongues, yeah? No startin' trouble.”
“Guardian, our very existences—“
“I know, I know. Jus'... Please. Be polite.”
Ilshenrir nodded, and Cob glared at Dasira until she did too.
“If we're staying,” said Fiora, “maybe we should figure out what not to say. Until now, the only skinchangers I've ever met were Arik and Sogan, and they don't seem...typical.”
Cob looked to Arik, who took no notice. “Arik?” he tried after a moment.
The big skinchanger's ears twitched, and his gaze slid slowly to Cob. His eyes looked washed-out, pupils wide, whole mien tight. “I...do not think I can advise,” he said. “They are not of my breed, and even if they were, I was not raised among wolves. I do not...respond correctly. You, the rest of you, they understand that you are not wolf and so are not to blame for your mistakes, but I am...aberrant in their eyes. Unwelcome.”
“I thought your spirit connected you.”
“Yes, but it is like a parent. It does not treat us all the same.”
Cob stared. He had been aware of Arik's edginess since their first contact with the wolves, but had shrugged it off as nerves or shyness. With his Guardian experience, he realized he should have known better. A shared spirit did not mean a hive-mind, and Arik had never behaved quite like a wolf. Evidently the other wolves took that as an insult.
“So maybe you should stay in the Grey,” he said, then sighed as the skinchanger shuddered. “All right, never mind. Jus'...maybe no one should say anythin' directly to the council. Pikes, I don't even know if they'll speak Imperial, or if our plan will make them turn on us.”
“We still intend to go to Daecia City like lunatics, right?” said Lark. “Because if so, I need to get in contact with my people before we reach the shadowless circle. They still have that robe I won, and our travel papers. You lot dragged me out of Turo too fast to grab them.”
“You haven't contacted 'em yet?”
“Well... Yeah, you're right,” Cob said, squelching the urge to argue. No matter how nervy he felt about the future, it wouldn't arrive any faster by yelling. “If we're havin' this meeting tonight, then we'll probably move out tomorrow morning, so best to get all that done.”
“Does anyone have any coins? I used all mine on the last shadow-path and the eiyets won't come for anything but sugar or shinies.”
The others shook their heads, then Dasira muttered, “I have some. And the rest of your winnings.” She fumbled awkwardly within her cocoon, then cursed as she dropped the sausage—and a moment later, the knife. It stuck in the ground by her foot and she just stared at it.
“Let me help,” said Lark solicitously, gliding over to feel under the furs. Though Dasira radiated pent-up fury, she permitted it. “How'd you get my stuff, though?”
“You were blackout-drunk. Who else was going to do it?”
“I wasn't that bad.”
“The only reason you didn't puke up your liver was that Vriene detoxified you.”
“I wasn't that bad!”
“Whatever you say.”
Watching them bicker, Cob felt a strange ache in his chest. There was a curve to Dasira's lips that could almost be called a smile. He had seen it on her face only once, but remembered it well from Darilan's.
Stop it, he told himself. It doesn't matter. We're not friends anymore.
But it still hurt, and when her grey eyes slanted toward him, they were guarded. The ghostly smile vanished, her expression once again blank.
I can't run from this. I have to face it.
“I think Ilshenrir should go with you, Lark. And Fiora too,” he said, feeling obvious. “In case the shadows give you trouble. Nobody should go anywhere alone.”
Fiora gave him a brief narrow look, then said, “I was planning to, anyway.” She tucked her arm in with Lark's and they turned toward the cave mouth, the wraith drifting after them apprehensively.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 2
