He didn't notice the look they traded. At this point, he wouldn't have noticed a war.
Chapter 9 – Borderline
It smelled of rain where he was, and cold stone, and old wood. But most of all it smelled of home. The blankets and the goat-hide cover lay heavy over him, and in his arms the woman's body was soft beneath her nightdress. Her cool fingers stroked the nape of his neck, and he tucked his head against her shoulder, breathing slow, feeling more at peace than he could remember.
“Ask him why,” she murmured in his ear.
He did not want to stir, nor think, nor open his eyes. It was good enough to just be here with the scent of her, herbs and soap and skin, in the swaddling confines of this close space as thunder rumbled in the distance. He wanted to stay here with her arms loose around him, his clasped behind her back, the slight rasp of homespun cloth against his cheek.
“Ask him why he hides from you,” she said again, her breath like frost.
“Mmf. Why,” he mumbled reluctantly, and hugged her closer, hoping she would let it go. Let him rest.
“Ask him, Ko Vrin.”
His name peeled some of the muzziness away, and he opened his eyes a crack, unhappy with being disturbed and unsure what she wanted. From up close, the curve of her brown neck and her long, fine hair enticed him; if not for the prodding of her voice, he would have pressed his mouth there and tried to make her forget this too. But her fingers urged his face upward and the cover slipped from his cheek, exposing the ceiling to his peripheral vision. Though firelight barely traced the rough-worked stone, each chip was achingly familiar.
A queer sensation radiated down his spine in time with the tickle of her nails. “Fi—“ he started to say, but the name caught in his mouth because he knew it was wrong. He knew this place, from the drip of water outside the leather curtains to the shadows of the furniture that flickered up the walls as the firewood cracked and popped. Knew the cool breath against his forehead—or had, back when it had been warm.
“This—“ he said, trying to push himself up. She let him.
The goat-hide cover fell back, the blankets slithering from his shoulders, and all he could think was, At least I dream myself clothed, because he knew this was not real—knew it could not be his mother in his bed. Not stretching languidly like that, her black hair spread in waves across the cushions, her eyes like ink, the bow of her mouth unbent by fear or sorrow. The bodice of her nightdress moved with her calm breath, and he withdrew his hand from her hip as if burned.
“Ask him why he hides his memories from you, Ko Vrin,” she murmured, the depths of her mouth as black as night.
He looked away—he had to—and in the process saw the room. It was home as he remembered it: the shelves chiseled into the walls, the woven baskets, the gash in the rock that led to the goats' pens, the leather flaps in the archway, the hearth and the clothes-trunks and the small table.
His father sat there, cross-legged on a cushion, his back to them. Not in Guardian armor but in his old hide coat with his braid hanging to the floor, fine strands of silver just beginning to mar its darkness. The table was set up for black-and-white, the polished stones reflecting firelight in subtle glints.
“Ask him,” she said again, then curved herself more comfortably in the bedclothes, her hip nudging his thigh. He drew his legs up automatically, shaken, and tried to will himself awake, but it did nothing.
“Wh— Why?” he said finally, hoping that if he obeyed, this would end.
His father did not speak, did not turn, though by his slight shift of posture Cob knew he had heard. So Cob tried again. “Why won't you show me what really happened? Did you think I wouldn't listen if it didn't seem like you were the victims? I don't need any prodding to do this now, father. Whatever I see, it won't change my mission.”
Dernyel did not answer, only picked up one of the pieces, a white stone. As he regarded it in profile, Cob saw the strain in the lines of his eyes and mouth.
“You want to say something,” Cob prompted, trying to keep calm even as fingers traced idly along the side of his clothed leg. “I'm with you now. You can tell me the truth.”
Shaking his head, Dernyel turned the stone over to present its black face. That uncommunicative gesture made anger surge in Cob's chest, and he grabbed at the wall and started to rise. Sharp nails bit into his calf.
The top of his head hit dirt, knocking loose grains into his hair and down his collar. He blinked and all was black—no fireplace, no storm scent, no rumbling thunder, just the sensation of earth beneath him and a warm, somnolent weight in his arms.
He barely kept from jerking away, his dreaming nerves certain that this was still his home. At least his senses knew the difference—knew that the woman with her back to his chest was not a nightmare but Fiora. She smelled right, of exertion-sweat and dirt and pine and girl, and she felt right too, her curly hair bunched against his cheek, her compact build tucked neatly against him, his hand up her tunic to cup a warm breast. Her heart beat slow beneath his palm.
It was him who felt wrong.
Carefully he extricated himself. She made a soft distressed noise, but did not wake. It hurt him to leave, but his thoughts were a jumble, and so—miserably—was his libido, and he had to get out. Out of the makeshift cave, out into the air and sky and enough space to run away.
His feet told him where the exit was, and where his friends were too: Dasira and Lark dozing back-to-back with Arik in wolf-form lying over their legs like a rug, and Ilshenrir up above, his presence like starlight on earth. Cob wanted no company, but could not bear to stay cooped up in this darkness, so picked his way to the opening and pulled himself out through the protective ward into the cold.
An icy wind immediately raked fingers through his hair, and he shivered at the memory of the dream. He stayed there at the cave's edge, rasping in breaths of frost, until his heart stopped hammering quite so hard.
It was far from his first visitation, and he knew it was not his mother. She was five years dead with no excuse to return now. Whatever dire entity dared use her face, her voice, was just trying to manipulate him, and he could not let it win.
Yet in the dream, she felt so real...
He ran a hand over his face, then smacked himself a few times for good measure. He was on a mission and this hog-crap wasn't helping. Perhaps it was just his mind messing with him, or perhaps that Nightmare god had planted a seed while he walked through Enkhaelen's terrors. He was the only one who hadn't hallucinated his own threat.
Just let it go, he thought, and turned his gaze skyward. In the east—the direction from which they'd come—the land rose into the Garnet Mountains, dark with evergreens and brown broadleafs. According to Dasira, they were in the range's rain-shadow now and would see no more snow. The first glow of dawn seeped up beyond the ragged peaks, while just above hung the Eye of Night, its trajectory inclining it toward the sun. He wondered if this year would have a Darkness Day eclipse to go with the festival. It seemed a bad omen.
“They are not as I remember,” came Ilshenrir's hollow voice behind him.
Cob glanced back to find him perched atop the hill that covered the cave, gaze upturned to the dim sky. He looked distinctly inhuman now, washed of color and with eyes so wide they seemed to swallow the top half of his face, his hair and clothes melded into thick petal-like layers. Even his concealing cloak had split apart. It was difficult to tell if there was a body beneath.
“What're you doin'?” Cob said, dark thoughts banished by the sight.
“This is how we rest,” said the wraith, mouth unmoving. It and the faint arch of his nose were all that remained human about his face, but even they seemed carved there. “I am absorbing light from the stars; I must take it in day and night if I wish to be of use to you again. I hope that the salt desert will be bright.”
“You're... You look like a glass pine-cone.”
The strange petals shivered slightly, their susurrus almost like laughter. “I apologize if it dist
resses you.”
“No, s'all right. Whatever y' have to do. It's jus'...”
“We do not belong here, Guardian. It is evident in all that we are.”
“Cob. Call me Cob. When I don't have the antlers, I'm not the Guardian.”
The wraith inclined his head, and those wide eyes blinked down to human size, the carved mouth softening into a smile. “Yes, of course. Cob. I apologize.”
“Y' don't have to...” Cob trailed off with a sigh. “What were you sayin'?”
“The stars.” The pseudo-fabric separated at the shoulder, releasing a surprisingly human arm in a long grey glove. “There is something...puzzling about them,” the wraith continued, pointing at the sky. “They are difficult to observe from Syllastria and the White Isle, but what I see here is not what my memory tells me I should.” He shook his head, petal-like hair fracturing into normal strands at the motion. “Perhaps I am simply experiencing the ghosts of my old lives.”
“Old lives, like before y' fell to earth?”
“No.” The wraith stepped down from the rocks, each motion turning him more human. By the time he came to stand by Cob's spot, he looked like himself, though tired. “My current life has spanned two centuries. Before that, I am not certain who I was, or upon which side I stood. The haelhene seek out our fallen so that they may be rehomed on the Isle, but the reincarnation process is...traumatic, and few remember their former existence. Pieces sometimes float to the surface, but it is hard to discern their context.”
Cob frowned. “So...you ended up with the mist-wraiths after a fight, right?”
“After my raiding flight was brought down upon the Wrecking Shore, yes. We had been in search of natives for my House's experiments.”
“What?”
The wraith's mouth curved faintly. “You have seen Haaraka, and Akarridi, and tasted the bite of the black blades. You know that some of my people practice necromancy. Who do you think they practice on? We do not have flesh, and our essences do not bend in such ways. I remember when your Empire first extended a treaty to us, permitting our harvests in exchange for our covert aid. It was shortly before I was brought down—just over a century ago.”
Cob's mouth went dry. He wasn't sure what to ask about first: the Akarriden blades, the experiments, or the Empire's complicity.
Instead, he chose avoidance. “You have Houses? Like families?”
Ilshenrir turned a questioning eye on him. “In a way, I suppose. There are still a few among the haelhene who remember the fall—who have never died. They are the strongest, and can subjugate lesser haelhene to their will. Over time, this has led to the formation of competing factions within our—their territories, who name themselves after their Elder and seek loose essences or weak enemies to be subjugated into the House. I was called back to life by Elder Mallandriach, and so I was sa Mallandriach.”
“But not anymore?”
An odd expression crossed the wraith's face, unreadable by starlight. “I was retrieved by an airahene called Vallindas, who helped me understand the wrongs the haelhene had done, and who advocated for me when the others wanted me subjugated into their service. I shed Mallandriach's influence naturally over time.”
“So subjugation... Y' can all do it?”
“Yes, provided our essence can overpower that of our opponent. The airahene use it as punishment upon those who commit crimes; the haelhene use it wherever they see a weakness.”
“Not surprised y' came with me, then.”
“It is pleasant to be free of strictures. I side with the airahene in all matters, but it has not been the same since Vallindas was lost. Even my eshar Seimaranth, whom you met, is cold in comparison.”
Cob raised his brows. He remembered the wine-colored wraith, whose bare hint of empathy had outshone the other airahene like a bonfire against candles. Back then, he'd approved of that more-human reaction without considering it, but now... “Um. Were you...together?”
“'Together'?” the wraith echoed, then smiled faintly. “We communed often. There were few barriers between us. In time, perhaps there would have been none. But duty called, and Vallindas is in the Grey now. I know not where.”
“What happened?”
“Another futile battle between our kinds. It became chaotic, I am told, with the fallen spread far and wide—and over human territory, so there is speculation that the broken shells were taken by them. There are some who sell our pieces as charms.”
“Like that piece y' gave Lark?”
“That is my living substance. It is not quite the same.”
Cob made a face, rubbing at one of the thorn-spots at his collarbone. “So if wraiths attacked us—say, in the desert—you could get control of 'em?”
“If I made direct contact and had the strength to overpower them, yes. But it is not a reliable tactic.”
“What if I caught a wraith? With roots and such?”
“Being connected to the earth does drain us, but again, it is not reliable. I cannot control an army of wraiths for you.”
“Didn't want an army,” Cob muttered. “Though it'd probably be more effective than any of the others on offer.”
“Doubtful. Haelhene are fractious under the best conditions.”
“I jus', y'know... It would be nice to not have to kill the ones that come after us. I'm not bein' soft, I jus' don't want to strand more things in the Grey. Plus then we'd have more magic on our side.”
Ilshenrir smiled faintly. “Compassion is dangerous, Cob. As is such acquisitive ambition. If you wish more magic, I can instruct Lark in its practice.”
“Uh... I wouldn't object, but that's her say.”
“Is it? You are the leader, Cob,” said Ilshenrir, turning to regard him directly. “You bear the Guardian. You set the mission and enforce its rules. It was your choice to turn down armed support from various factions, Trifolder and skinchanger among them—your choice to trust in parasitic entities like myself and Dasira rather than native folk. Your choice to head straight into the teeth of the enemy, under guise but without support. If your choice is also to leave the cultivation of your followers to their own personal preference...”
Cob stared up at the wraith, shoulders tight. “Y' think I'm wrong, then? Y' coulda said somethin' earlier!”
“I think that you are an inexperienced leader,” said the wraith with great patience, “and a somewhat unwilling one. Yet our lives are in your hands. No matter your misgivings, it is your job to command us—to utilize us in the best way possible. I am honored to be a part of this; I once feared that you would not accept my aid at all. But I cannot see a coherent plan in your actions, and it concerns me.”
“I have a plan!”
“To enter the Palace and slay Enkhaelen?”
“Yes!”
“And what is this plan?”
“It's...what you jus' said.”
“Cob. That is not a plan. That is a statement of intent.”
Cob exhaled forcefully through his teeth. “Look, if what Dasira says is true, what kinda plan can we really have? The Palace changes itself, it'll be full of crazy pilgrims and kings and mentalists, we're not sure where Enkhaelen will be...”
“Is this a suicide mission, then?”
“No! Absolutely not! Jus' because—“ Every other assault on the Palace has ended in utter failure. “—We don't have a clear idea of what we're gettin' into right now doesn't mean we won't have one once we're at the gates.”
“Yes, I understand. Thus we must hone what weapons we have, while we await news of our foe. If you desire more magic, Lark is the only one of this company who can be taught, and so I will teach her.”
“I jus'... Would you at least ask her first?”
“Nothing can be taught by force.”
“I know, but if she thinks I'm tellin' her what to do, she'll probably punch me.”
“Perhaps you two should discuss that.”
I'd rather fight the haelhene, thought Cob, then kicked himself. Ilshenrir was right; he was
the leader, and that meant managing his team—even the ones who kind of hated him. Unfortunately, the only effective leader he'd worked under had been Maevor, back at the Crimson camp, and his managerial technique had hinged on gossip and bribery.
“It's difficult,” he said, fixing his gaze on his hands. “I'm not good with people. They make me angry. Look, I broke a buncha knuckles here in an argument with some 'comrades', and pikes, look at my face. Nose three times, jaw once. I don't know how t' use words to make people obey. The Guardian helps with folk like the skinchangers, but everyone else jus' sees right through me. And I...I don't even know what I want from this. Enkhaelen has to die, but what then? What about the Empire?”
Ilshenrir's voice from above was as calm as ever. “The empires of humankind have risen and fallen for millennia. I know it is not what you wish to hear—“
“No, it's not. I know the Trifolders want the Emperor dead. Fiora says it all the time. I know he's somethin'...strange, and involved in all this creepy shit goin' on. But what happens without him? The Empire's not the enemy, it's jus' people. Farmers and craftsmen and priests and soldiers, families and kids and old folks. What happens to them?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes!”
“Then you will be disappointed, Cob.” The wraith shook his head, long hair shifting like glass filaments. “There is no way to know. My people can glimpse possibilities—can navigate to an outcome or force one into being, sometimes, if we are unopposed and can bring enough power to bear. But there are unending options spread out in all dimensions. You can not see if your actions will bring peace or chaos, success or destruction, until you take them.”
Cob looked up at him, blinking. “You see the future?”
“I just explained that I do not.”
“But you said you can force things to happen—“
“With great effort. It is nigh impossible to do in this realm, for the land resists us. Most often we use it in battle with each other, and I do not think that any of us can use it around you because of the weight of the Guardian's presence. In the same way that you forced Erestoia to be solid and static, you restrict the manipulation of probability.”
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 28
