He lowered it carefully, not wanting to chance another tremor. “Thanks. This'll help a lot.”
The spokes-rock inclined its head, then stamped hard enough to send a vibration through the ground. On cue, the stone-folk turned and filed into the cliff, the makeshift door already grinding closed. As the spokes-rock passed through, it sealed without a seam.
Cob risked a glance at his friends, concerned how they had taken this. To his relief, only Dasira had that 'you are such an idiot' look on her face, and he considered it standard. Fiora gave him a big grin, then bustled over with a rag and a canteen and started dabbing at his face.
“It's all mended,” he objected.
“Yes, but you look a mess. Hold still.”
He suffered through it, staring over her head toward the hog-folk. Of all the creatures that had attended the meeting, they alone had not asked for anything—and they were the ones most belonging to the Guardian. The way they ducked their heads when they caught his glance made him think they were shy.
“Hoi,” he tried. “I want to thank you for sheltering my friends, and for the food. If there's somethin' you'd ask of me...”
A murmur of excitement went through them, and they immediately clustered up, muttering together in low voices. Fiora gave him a curious look, and he shrugged. “Gotta offer. It's polite.”
Eventually, two stepped out from the group, both in the extended corsets of the females. They were as war-painted as the rest, and he recognized the one in the lead as the brewer. Her strings of beads and tusks clacked loudly against the metal structure of her garment.
“We have a request, Guardian,” she said as they came close enough to smell. “We want for you to give us babies.”
Cob blanched, and heard Fiora choke—heard Lark muffle a laugh. Up close, the sows loomed over him, his eyes on level with the top edge of their corsets, and he was suddenly all too aware of cleavage covered in short, fine bristles. His first instinct was to flee into the woods. “I, uh, I don't think that's a—“
“You are spirit of fertility,” said the lead sow, blinking beady black eyes down at him. “We ask your blessing so we have many babies and grow Gnashed Tusk clan big and strong. It can be done, yes?”
He wanted to kick himself. Horrible, stupid imagination. “Jus' bless? Yeah, I...I can do that.”
The sow beamed, lips lifting to show the rest of her nasty teeth. Then she and her subordinate reached to undo the buckles that kept their complex corsets in place.
“No, no no no, that's not— Y' don't need to take anythin' off,” Cob said quickly, and almost sagged in relief as the Guardian's knowledge confirmed it. “I jus' need to touch skin, any skin. Hands are fine.”
They squinted doubtfully, but let go of the buckles and extended hands to him. Carefully he set the tectonic lever down on its blunt end, then clasped them with as much professionalism as he could muster. Each was four-fingered, the middle two thick and hard, the thumb truncated, the outermost finger unusually flexible. He wondered how they worked.
“Jus' relax,” he said, and closed his eyes.
It took no effort to sense their hearts, strong and healthy, but from there the Guardian had to guide him into stranger territory. He had blessed others with ease, and knew he could project a sort of mending aura, but those had been broad actions. This was like navigating some dense organic labyrinth in search of the point that required attention. He tried not to think about what, exactly, he was aiming for; as a child, he had helped his parents with birthing goats, so had an idea, but this felt awkward. A fumbling intrusion into the realm of women.
I shouldn't be messing with this. What if I break something? he thought as the Guardian guided him from labyrinths to caverns netted with tiny flecks of life, some kindled and some merely potential. The Guardian only nudged him onward, and with trepidation he focused.
Extending nurturance to such small things was a test in itself. He wanted to just bless the whole space—the whole female—but the Guardian wouldn't let him. Like seed beads, he had to thread each fleck individually with his power, and the concentration quickly wiped the embarrassment from his mind.
At last, with every little speck infused, the Guardian's grip slackened. He fell back into his body with a start, big hog-folk hands steadying him as he wobbled. Blinking, he stared up at the sows and said, “Everythin' all right?”
“Tingly,” grinned the subordinate female. Cob blushed.
“You do us great honor,” said one of the males, coming forward to clasp Cob hard on the shoulder. “We will name first piglet Ko Vrin! Ah, we should celebrate the blessing!”
“That's...I appreciate it,” Cob said. “Really. But we're on a mission, so...”
The boar's bristly ears sagged, then he nodded his ponderous head. “Yes, you have Guardian task. But when it is complete, you return to us and we celebrate!”
“Right. Of course.”
After that, Cob found himself crushed in a variety of hog-hugs, corseted and otherwise, until finally he was released to retrieve the tectonic lever and stumble back to his friends. They received him with a mixture of amusement and glee—the latter mostly on Arik's part, who nabbed him in a hug of his own and crowed, “Now you are spirit-father to all the little piggies! I wonder if they will taste of venison...”
Cob elbowed him in the ribs. “No eatin' them.”
Releasing him, the wolf affected a hangdog look. “Not even a lick?”
“No. Not anythin'.”
With a huff, Arik passed him to Fiora, though Cob caught him muttering about piglets with antlers. Fiora hooked her arm with his, gave him a searching look, then said, “You made them pregnant?”
“No! They already were. I jus' made them...pregnant better.”
“Oh. Huh.”
“Can we go before I have t' crawl under a rock and die?”
“Think you need to talk to the wolves first.”
Wincing, Cob followed her pointing finger to see a crowd of wolf-folk emerging from the trees. In the lead was Ressah, with her mate at her heels. None of them seemed pleased to be here, their yellow eyes avoiding him, their hair slightly hackled, but they approached in a cohesive unit, wolf-type and biped alike.
Cob placed himself between them and his friends, shaking off Fiora's hands again. She gave him an annoyed look but he had to focus on the wolves.
“I thank you for your hospitality too,” he said before they could speak, “even though y' weren't so gracious with it. I guess y' can't help it. But I don't know that I'll be grantin' any blessings when you've been harassin' my friends.”
“We do not ask for blessings,” said Ressah, lifting her head enough to fix her gaze on his chin. Her expression was tight, bitter. “All we wish is that you redeem us from my dam's failure.”
Cob nodded slowly. He was disappointed in Haurah too, and in the Guardian—for its secrets, its fractious nature, and its abandonment of its vessel. It made him wonder when it would choose to leave him, though in truth he wasn't sure why it stayed.
“Yeah, I can do that,” he said. “I'll redeem us all.”
The wolf-woman nodded, then snapped something to her pack. Immediately the wolves split into two groups, and Cob watched narrowly as they moved in around his friends like an honor guard. He didn't trust them, but they showed no sign of aggression, so when Ressah took up a lieutenant's position beside him, he decided not to make it an issue.
Casting a last glance over his friends, he found them ready: rucksacks slung, cloaks clasped, gloves on, scarves wrapped tight around cold-nipped faces. Arik was as wolfish as he could be and still wear the chiton, his quills pushing out the fabric in places, and Lark looked like a walking coat-rack, with Dasira not much less layered beside her. Even Ilshenrir had pulled his hood up and bundled tighter, though Cob guessed it was just to blend in.
Right at Cob's heels stood Fiora, ruddy cheeks further flushed by the cold, arms crossed as she waited for him to acknowledge her. The compression of her lips told him he was
in trouble, but when he held out his hand as a peace offering, she clasped it and beamed, the shadow evaporating. He returned the smile as best he could.
Then he raised the Guardian armor and turned to seek the Palace.
*****
Dasira did her best to keep up. It was not the first time she had been forced on a trek while gravely wounded, and she refused to be done in. But will alone could not make her match the Guardian's pace—even when he was holding back.
By popular request, Cob had not projected his herd-aura upon them, which meant that they traveled under their own strength rather than being pulled along in his wake. While this wore them all out faster, it kept Cob from falling into the Guardian trance and forgetting they existed.
Which was all well and good for those who wanted a decent halt-time and didn't mind the exhaustion of direct exercise, but for Dasira, there was the concern that she might fall too far behind. Away from the herd and in amongst the wolves.
They would tear her apart if they thought they could get away with it.
She hated feeling weak. All her life, she had fought that classification, first as a human and then as a bodythief, and if not for the secrecy of her position she might have been reckoned the best killer of her age. Not the best assassin; she had problems with subtlety. But the best at reckless, body-swapping, window-diving, pain-ignoring, vicious contract murder? It was possible.
Cob had ended that. A part of her resented him for drawing out her long-buried heart, but now that she looked back on her life, she was glad. All that time in Imperial service, and what had it gained her?
Nothing. Not even revenge.
She doubted that this would help, but she couldn't let Cob go without her. Not with Fiora around. The girl was like a needle in her ego, always on Cob's arm or snuggled up with him. Dasira had never wanted that—had always felt more like a parent, or an elder sibling—but to have that bitch usurp her position at his side...
It was infuriating.
Not for the first time, she wished she had held back as Darilan. Left some leeway to convince Cob that she meant no harm, that she could walk beside him instead of stand against him. She could have been the close one—before Arik, before Fiora. Instead, she was just a hanger-on.
And still he was the center of her life. She had turned her back on the Palace, on Enkhaelen, on Prince Kelturin—all for him. Not just for that dream of a child who could surmount her suffering, but for a friend.
Now look how broken we are, she thought as she followed him down yet another rocky incline. With their west-northwest trajectory, they were headed downhill most of the way, and while there were plenty of bushes and trees to grab onto when her balance wavered, she hated that she needed them. Her equilibrium was back—more or less—but her threads still strained to keep her steady and quash the anomalous signals coming from this body's damaged brain. Increasingly she felt she needed a new one, but Cob would never forgive her.
He was so withdrawn now, seldom speaking unless spoken to. She feared what the Guardian was making of him, and what he would do if it left.
Or worse, if it didn't.
A shadow moved beside her, and she glanced up to see Lark at her elbow, smiling wanly. “You look like you could use some company.”
“Do I?” Dasira squinted across the rocks to where Cob and Fiora walked together, with Arik at their heels and Ilshenrir drifting after. The skinchanger and wraith seemed to have put their differences aside, perhaps as comrades in harassment, and the wolf-pack escort had vanished from the slopes and back-trail. Allowing herself a sigh of relief, she nodded. “Why not.”
Lark smirked. “Missed you too.”
“Didn't seem like it when you were fluffing up the cat-man.”
“What, you want me to fluff you?” She reached toward Dasira's hood, and snorted when Dasira leaned away. “Anyway, what else was I supposed to do? Get between you and Fiora?”
“You could pick a side.”
“No way. Maybe she's hiding something, but what does it matter? We all are.”
Dasira glared at her sidelong. “It matters because I know what Trifolders can and can't do, and going invisible and sneaking into a crystal tower is heavy on the 'can't' side.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she piking well stabbed a wraith right in front of me, and the arrowhead—“
“No, how do you know what Trifolders can do?”
“Know your enemy,” Dasira said, but looked away from Lark's raised brows.
“Uh huh. Well, like I said, I'm not getting between you. I shall be the neutral party.”
Though she wanted to argue, Dasira forced herself to nod in acceptance. “Anyway. You doing all right?”
Lark's face tightened. “No. But I suppose I'm better. I want to go back—pikes, maybe I'm the leader now, since I was Cayer's lieutenant. But if the kai is gone, if we're at war with the Crimsons... Maybe it's best for Enforcement to handle it.”
“Plus you can't pet kitties over there.”
“Oh shut up!”
“He was practically draped in your lap. He didn't want to talk to Cob at all, he just came right to you.”
Lark lifted her chin with a huff, but then cracked a grin. “It was funny—Arik says I have cat-blood, right? Maybe he could smell it. I thought he was trying to curry some favor with Cob through me, because Cob had gone off to be cranky in the woods, but he was telling me about cat-folk things and I looked over and, well, he's naked but for the fur, right, so he was just lounging there and his thing started poking out...” She raised her pinkie like a little flag.
Dasira's mouth twitched. “'Thing'? You're gonna say 'thing'?”
“Shut up. He was totally relaxed, like this happens all the time, but I couldn't stop laughing, so finally he slunk off. That's when you two were hissing in the corner.”
“She was trying to get me to stay behind. Framing it as 'for my own good', but pike that.”
“You need to stop fighting.”
“Tell her that. I'm willing to let her do whatever—“
“And by whatever, you mean Cob.”
They matched stares, then Lark said, “I remember back when you were Darilan, and we were in that caravan-shelter and you babbled about him like you were drunk. I thought it was sweet then, but seriously, you need to live your own life.”
“I don't like my life. ...That just came right out of my mouth, didn't it.”
Lark smirked and made as if to pinch Dasira's cheek. Dasira swatted her hand away. “You're opening up. It's so cute,” said the Shadow girl.
“You're a pain in the ass.”
“Mhm!”
Dasira shook a fist, but couldn't deny that it was nice to see a light in her eyes again. She was a tough girl, but she took setbacks personally.
“Why do you think he had a cat-face anyway?” said Lark, watching the trail again. “I mean, the wolves don't run around with wolf-faces all the time. When they want one, they turn into a wolf.”
“How should I know? Arik!”
The skinchanger's ears swiveled toward them, then he dropped back with an inquisitive look. Lark repeated her question, and he snorted. “He does not have to blend in with humans, so he chooses the best of both worlds. Cat senses, human hands.”
“Can the hogs shift?”
“No. Their spirit is dead, slain by the wraiths.”
“Surprised they didn't go after Ilshenrir, then.”
Arik shrugged quilled shoulders. “They respect the Guardian more than the wolves do.”
“Speaking of, are you all right? They weren't exactly nice to you.”
“I am a lone wolf. It is my lot.”
“You can't join a new pack?”
He tilted his head quizzically. “Why would I? I follow the Guardian.”
“Not the Wolf?” said Dasira.
Arik gave her a sidelong look. “I have no choice but to follow the Wolf. It is more than blood; it is my soul. I am just a tiny fragment trapped in this
flesh, and when the Wolf calls, I must answer. It is like that for all of us.”
“Could the Wolf turn you against the Guardian?” said Lark.
“I do not know. The Guardian is all spirits' parent, but...”
“Spirits don't need to like each other to be loyal,” Dasira cut in. “That's why we're going to Riddian. A lot of skinchangers and Wolf cultists still live there. We might find some help.”
Lark looked doubtful. “Skinchangers in an Imperial province?”
“Trust me, I was born there. Some of the clans are actually packs of skinchangers and their human kin. They won't tolerate a cull, so the Emperor's spent decades pretending to 'mediate' between Riddian and Trivestes by forcing Riddish skinchangers to marry Trivesteans. Breeding out the pure bloodlines.”
“Why don't they fight it?”
“Because he's made it about status, and the Riddish can't resist that. So every year there are more mixed marriages, more human births, and fewer skinchanger ones. Still, we'll have more allies there than in any other province.”
“We're not raising an army,” said Lark.
“We still need aid. Shelter, supplies, silence. We don't exactly look like good Imperials.”
Lark made a face. “And we have to go through actual civilized territory now.”
“I plan to avoid that as long as possible, which is also why I recommend Riddian. We can cross the desert easier than we can slip through the Trivestean canyons again.”
“Pikes, a desert?”
Dasira paused with one hand on a young tree-trunk and gestured toward where the foothills and plateaus shrank into the northern distance. “The Great Salt Waste. Used to be an inner sea, but it dried up some centuries ago. Now it's just ruins and blowing sand, too saline to support life. Shouldn't be a problem for the Guardian, though.”
“Do we have to?”
“Would you rather get shot at every step of the way? That's what will happen if we try going through Trivestes. The Riddish border is much more permeable, especially if the people help us.”
“But a desert...”
“Don't worry. It's a cold desert.”
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 15
