The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3)

by H. Anthe Davis

  “So you'd be more effective away from me.”

  “I would have no purpose away from you.”

  For a long moment, Cob regarded Ilshenrir's fine alien features, then sighed and gestured for him to sit. The wraith tilted his head, then folded down beside him. From closer, he looked more human, his pale yellow eyes only a touch more luminous than natural. The outer surface of his substance had returned to its cloth-like state, no different from silver silk in the moonlight.

  “Do wraiths have friends?” Cob said.

  A slow blink, then Ilshenrir seemed to contemplate it. “We have teachers. We have superiors. We have those we commune with—our jehaithe, our...other-souls. But we do not...make jokes. We do not laugh at each other. We share interests and tasks, but they are for the advancement of that interest or task, which I think is not what you mean.”

  “So you never jus' get together because you like to be around each other?”

  “With jehaithe, yes.”

  “But that's...closer.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about your teachers, once you're done bein' taught?”

  “What about them?”

  “Well...d'you still talk?”

  “We collaborate sometimes.”

  “But jus' for projects.”

  “Yes.”

  “What will y'do when we finish this?”

  Ilshenrir looked up at the stars, brows furrowed faintly. “I do not know.”

  They sat like that for a while, watching the sky lighten, until a scuttle of claws made Cob look over to the cave-mouth. Arik, emerging, turned immediately toward them with ears perked and nose twitching, and bounded over happily at Cob's beckon. After a quick circuit, complete with thorough sniffing, the great wolf flopped down over Cob's legs.

  “Argh,” said Cob, pushing at the wolf's chest ineffectually. Arik's big pewter tail whapped hard against the ground.

  “Everyone wakin' up then?” he continued, glancing to the cave again. The warding spell blocked noise as well as wind and temperature, and he could not see from this angle.

  “Rrrmph,” said the wolf, then opened his mouth wide and wiggled jaw and tongue until they contorted into something more humanoid. Cob winced; he hated watching it. “Not yet,” rasped the wolf, then flipped onto his back and wiggled around on Cob's legs until Cob kicked him away in exasperation.

  The wolf laughed his creepy almost-human laugh, then sprang up with an announcement of “Must pee on everything!” and zoomed away into the trees.

  “He is enthusiastic,” said Ilshenrir.

  Cob rolled his eyes.

  By the time the women began to emerge, Arik had returned and annoyed Cob into a wrestling match. It never failed; he could only take so much waggy, sniffy, ear-chewing, noodle-tongue-up-the-nose behavior before he had to hook an arm around the wolf's neck and try to make him one with the dirt. Arik loved it, and even Cob reluctantly admitted it was fun. They were halfway down the hill, floundering through a destroyed patch of shrubs, when an “Oh by the gods” from above interrupted their romp.

  He looked up to find Dasira and Fiora peering down at him from the entrance, Fiora with hands on her hips, Dasira shaking her head. Abashed, he turned away from the skinchanger, who immediately tackled him into the bushes.

  “This is why you have no good tunics!” shouted Fiora.

  “Peace—oof, peace!” Cob said, shoving the skinchanger off, and Arik sprang to his paw-like feet then settled, crestfallen. When Cob waved an arm, though, the skinchanger hauled him up and helped detach him from the clinging branches, then picked leaf bits from his hair fastidiously. Cob allowed it and tried to smooth his torn tunic. Any scratches he had sustained were long gone, but once again he was a mess.

  “Sorry, jus' got a bit distracted,” he called up to the women. “Lark still asleep?”

  “She won't come out and says she hates us all.”

  “Right, so...fire and tea then.”

  Cob and Arik fetched the wood, Ilshenrir provided the spark, Fiora did the brewing. Dasira vanished back into the cave the moment they started organizing, and though Cob couldn't see, he felt her moving within that dark space—slow, deliberate, the same physical routine she had been doing since mid-trek when she said she felt up to it. She was trying to get back into fighting fit, he knew, but she still stumbled on the trail. Even now he could feel the strain in her muscles by the way her feet moved on the earth.

  He didn't want to pry, but Ilshenrir was right: this was the team he'd chosen, so he had to refine it. They all needed work. Arik's mood had improved since leaving the wolf-tribe behind, but he still stuck to Cob like a burr, and Lark alternated between gloom and levity, anger and boredom. Maybe magic would help her. He wasn't sure how to help the wolf.

  And Fiora...

  Maybe he didn't love her, but he couldn't be sure. Every time he tried to pin down the emotion, it parted like water, leaving him grasping in confusion. He wanted—no, needed to have her close, even if they couldn't stop arguing, but the ache in his chest discomfited him.

  He'd felt this attachment to another once, and failed her. He couldn't bear a repeat.

  The tea was ready just in time for the sun to crest the mountains. Fiora had to waft a cup in front of Lark before she would come out of the cave, and even then the southern girl looked groggy and sullen. When Arik flumped down at her side and slung a furry arm across her blanket-heavy shoulders, she sighed resignedly then leaned into him. Cob watched that, curious, but couldn't decide whether something was happening between them.

  By the time Dasira emerged, Fiora had made her own tea and settled against Cob's side, and the look the bodythief gave them was studiedly neutral. Cob kept his own face composed. The women had issues with each other, and his opinion seemed to bear no weight.

  “We should be at the border by mid-day,” said Dasira as she settled on Lark's other side. “I'd suggest sending Arik to scout ahead, or you do it through the Guardian, Cob. We want to avoid contact with anyone directly on the border because they'll be obligated to report it to the Sapphire Army. Once we're actually inside Riddian, they won't care.”

  “You can't talk our way through the border somehow?” said Lark.

  “Not from the Garnet side. If there's even one Trivestean stationed where we cross, we'll be eating arrows, and the Riddish Sapphires are fiendishly territorial. Give them a border to guard and they'll run you down as a trespasser and piss on your corpse.”

  “Lovely. Why is the east so piking barbaric?”

  “You're just squeamish.”

  “Well, it shouldn't be difficult,” said Cob before the bickering could start. “We've got forewarnin' between me and Arik, veilin' from Ilshenrir, then Das talks our way through the interior. So I guess we're ready?”

  “If you want a fire while we're in there, you'd best gather the wood now,” said Dasira. “Very little grows in the salt desert and I wouldn't recommend burning it.”

  “And what else? Water?” said Lark. “We'll be in there for what, a week? I don't think my canteen's that big.”

  “We can pick up supplies at an inner town. There should be plenty at the desert's edge, selling food and water and the like. Protective clothing too. Hats, gloves, scarves, eye-guards. The glare off the salt gets bright, and when the wind kicks up, the grains can strip you to the bone. Not to mention being toxic.”

  “Hooray,” said Lark. “At least we have money this time.” She shook a bag at her hip, which rattled with the sound of rough gems. “They don't call these the Garnet Mountains for nothing. Plus we could always cut a chunk off the silver sword. That thing's worth as much as a mansion.”

  “Pike you,” said Fiora, grasping the sheath protectively. “This is our main weapon!”

  “I'm just saying, in an emergency, it's really valuable.”

  “More valuable to us!”

  “If the enchantment is in the metal, then cutting a piece off shouldn't—“

  “Movin' on,” said Cob, strained.


  Lark gave him a look, but Fiora nodded and said, “So we get in, get equipment, and then...” She turned to Dasira, brows raised sympathetically. “Are you sure you should come along? No offense, but you haven't been at your best. If you give us a heading, I'm sure the Guardian can get us across the desert...”

  “I'm recovering,” said Dasira. “Don't worry your pretty little head about me.”

  Fiora stiffened against Cob's side, and he grimaced. “Oh no, I'm not concerned about you,” said the girl in a saccharine tone, shrugging his arm half-off. “You're a tough old bitch, that's obvious. But we're heading into danger, and that requires more than putting one foot in front of the other. We wouldn't want you to drag down the team.”

  “I can put my foot through your teeth, if you'd like.”

  Shit, thought Cob. “C'mon, don't—“

  “Can you?” said Fiora. “I think you'd be eating turf if you tried.”

  “Is that a challenge, little girl?”

  “Oh no, of course not. But if you want to be useful, you need to move on from stretches.”

  “To a spar?”

  “For your rehabilitation? I'd be happy to help.”

  “We're tryin' to plan here,” said Cob, glancing to the others for assistance. Arik and Lark both looked startled; Ilshenrir just stared at him expectantly.

  Rising, Fiora said, “You can plan, dear. She's given her input.”

  “I don't want you t'do this.”

  “Not everything is about you, Cob.”

  “It's all right,” said Dasira, climbing to her feet on the other side of the fire. “I promise not to do any permanent damage.”

  “It's just a spar,” confirmed Fiora. “Swords?”

  “I don't have one.”

  “I have two—”

  “Leave the silver sword out of this or you'll be meeting Serindas.”

  “I will volunteer my wooden blade,” said Ilshenrir, brushing aside his cloak and drawing the green-enameled sword from the apparent nothingness in which he kept it.

  “Don't encourage them!” said Cob, but the wraith merely gave him another pointed look.

  “Oh come now, Cob, it's just a friendly scuffle,” said Dasira, holding her hand out for the sword. Ilshenrir offered it hilt-first and she frowned as she hefted it. “Heavier than it looks.”

  “Don't try to feed me that hog-crap,” Cob snapped. “You two've been at each other's throats since the manor.”

  “Then isn't it best we get it out of our systems?” Dasira made a dismissive gesture. “Just sit back and enjoy the show.”

  “I'll get my stuff,” said Fiora, heading for the cave entrance.

  “Wear your armor.”

  “But that wouldn't be fair.”

  “Do it. I don't want to kill you by accident.” By Dasira's tone, on purpose was still an option.

  As Fiora ducked inside and Dasira turned away, Cob stood, scowling. “Don't do this,” he said as he stepped past the fire, reaching for the bodythief's arm. “It's stupid and if one of you gets hurt, we don't have the time to—“

  She slapped his hand away. “You can't stop this. It happens now, or it happens when we least need it. Do you understand?”

  “It doesn't have to happen at all! You're on the same side—my side. If you care for—“

  “Don't you dare,” she said, grey eyes cold. “I love you, Cob, but that doesn't mean I won't beat you bloody.”

  He recoiled, not sure how to respond to that.

  “Sit down,” she said. “This won't take long.”

  Feeling chastened, he returned to the fire and watched her move downhill to a clearer space, then shrug off her coat. Beneath, she looked leaner than before—some of the muscle gone in trade for the repairs—but her build was still solid and her stance balanced. Her dirty-blonde hair was already tied back, and she rolled up her ragged sleeves to show the bracer and the grey flesh around it, then stripped off her weapon-belt and tossed it and Serindas aside. A few whisks through the air with the enameled sword, then she turned her stare to the cave.

  “Dominance fight,” Arik murmured, leaning to pat Cob's leg comfortingly. “Will be all right.”

  Cob scowled. “This isn't a wolf-pack.”

  “Perhaps you should exercise your authority,” said Ilshenrir.

  “They don't listen!”

  “You are attempting to mediate, not to lead. You must—“

  “Shush!” said Lark as Fiora emerged from the cave, then strode past them without a glance. As the two combatants moved warily into position, the Shadow girl sat forward with an intent expression. “They're starting.”

  Cob reluctantly fell silent, and watched.

  *****

  Well, here goes nothing, thought Dasira as Fiora picked her way downhill, chainmail glinting in the early light.

  She wished she hadn't recommended the armor, but it was necessary. She couldn't kill the girl—not now, and probably not ever. No matter what her instincts screamed, she could not act on them because she had no way to prove Fiora was a threat.

  What did her suspicions amount to, anyway? An artificially-induced nightmare about subversion and pregnancy, a mysterious happening in Erestoia, the arrowhead, the tea and the Trifolder handbook. Not much evidence, especially when she could not dredge from her mind the reason the handbook had bothered her.

  If she was wrong, fighting Fiora would be an exercise in futility. Even if she was right and something abnormal happened, what would it change?

  At least I'll get to try to feed that little bitch her own teeth.

  The armor would make them equal.

  Fiora took up a position a few yards away, just far enough that they could not touch blades. “They call us 'Swords' but they bless our shields instead,” she said, gesturing at the cave. “Figured it wasn't fair to use it. Anyway, it's always annoyed me how the temple would rather we hide than fight.”

  Dasira nodded, observing. By Fiora's stance, she was already missing the shield; she tried to stand like a fencer with her body in line with the sword, but kept shifting on her feet as if to turn forward. Too much time spent training in one style.

  In response, Dasira loosened her stance and faced the girl fully, swapping the wooden sword back and forth between her hands. Over the past forty-five years, she had wielded just about every weapon possible, in nearly every style—though in varied bodies, so that her instinct with halberds and the like was suited more to a seven-foot-tall man. Swords, though, she knew in any form. This one was long enough for one-handed or hand-and-a-half style, and heavy enough for clubbing. It made her reevaluate the wraith's level of threat.

  “First blood?” said Fiora.

  “I'd prefer yield.”

  “If you insist. Any other rules?”

  “No.”

  Fiora's eyes gleamed, and Dasira repressed any hint of a smile. She didn't care what tricks the girl tried. If she called upon her goddess, Cob would be incensed—and if she did something else, then everyone would see.

  She intended to press Fiora until one of them snapped.

  “Whenever you're ready,” said the girl, raising her sword in a brief salute.

  Dasira did not return it, simply said, “Go.”

  Both stepped forward—no circling, no fencing. Though their battlefield extended three feet to either side and a good six yards in length, they moved immediately into each other's space. Their blades scraped together, flat to flat, then locked at the hilt as both put weight behind their sword-arm—a mutual shoulder-check, a moment of eye-to-eye hatred.

  Then Dasira grabbed for the girl's hair, and the fight was on.

  It was no duel. First hit would have been called when Dasira whipped her knee into Fiora's gut, first blood when Fiora's thumbnail cut into Dasira's cheek en route to her eye, but the two events were nearly concealed in a flurry of elbows, fists and spitting fury. The swords were there as threats to be neutralized, assets to be fought-over; the instant the women moved in close, they stopped being
blades and became glorified brass knuckles.

  Dasira was more than happy to grapple. Sword-fighting was all well and good, but punching the enemy's face in always felt better. She split Fiora's stance and forced her down backward while the girl clutched her by the tunic and tried to cram the Trifold sword's crosspiece up her nose, and that was fantastic—the glare, the bared teeth, the vicious resistance. She hadn't met that in a while. The chainmail softened her sword-hilt kidney-punch, but not the short knee-drop she managed on Fiora's chest once the girl went down.

  A burst of air came up, but no cry. Even with Dasira's knee planted between her breasts, Fiora grabbed for her arms and wrenched around until they both went tumbling across the rock, then rose to her knees and tried to plant her sword's pommel in Dasira's face again.

  Dasira blocked with her bracer and felt the impact reverberate along her nerves. She slid a leg out from between Fiora's straddling ones and nailed the girl's hip with her knee, forcing her to rock back enough for Dasira to pull her other leg free and plant both heels in her chest. The girl nearly fell away, but then brought her sword down at Dasira's legs, and the bodythief brought her own across to block it before trying to ram her boot into Fiora's jaw.

  The girl had already lurched away though, gaining her feet, and another swipe came for Dasira's head that she barely parried. Lunging up, Dasira led with her shoulder, intending to overbear, but Fiora turned to meet it and they hit again in a dead clinch. This time Dasira spat in her enemy's eyes, then clipped Fiora's recoiling face with her forehead. The girl's nose crunched against her brow.

  Fiora took one step back, then snapped forward with equal force, and Dasira saw stars as skull met skull.

  Something tore.

  A wave of dizziness took her, and the next thing she knew, she was on the ground with Fiora's knee between her ribs and the girl's fist coming down at her face. She tried to raise her bracer arm but it wouldn't move, so she used the other. The sword rose with it, somehow still clenched in her backward grip, and as Fiora's fist eclipsed her vision she saw the edge cutting toward the girl's throat.