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

by H. Anthe Davis

  Instead, she struck with the other hand, embedding long silver nails in his side—his scar.

  The pain doubled him over. He felt it everywhere: face, throat, heart, balls, like electric needles under his skin. Stone crumbled away from her fingers and he felt her clutch something ropy and vital, and thought for a moment that she had disemboweled him.

  Then the Guardian jerked in his chest and he realized she had it by the tail.

  He clamped his free hand over hers, suddenly certain that if he yanked away, she would tear the Great Spirit right out of him. She twisted her grip and the new burst of agony nearly drove him to his knees. “Get off,” he rasped, putting all his strength into another shove with the lever, but she just swayed with it; her arms were long, stance fluid, and she managed him as easily as a dance-partner, sigils lighting up under her robe and torc.

  “Breana!”

  A sword divided them, striking the hand that held Cob's shoulder with enough force to break the grip. The woman recoiled, shaking her arm like she'd just shocked it; a bloodless flap of skin hung from the back of her wrist, revealing a thin silver layer over twitching musculature.

  Shaken, Cob brought the tectonic lever down at her other forearm, but she was too quick, her fingers unlatching from his side. He tried to keep hold but she twisted her wrist, the skin sliding like a loose silk wrapping, and instinctive revulsion made him let go.

  The woman stagger-stepped a few paces back then steadied, face fixed in an expression of cold focus. She flexed her loose wrist and the skin tightened, then ran her hand down the other arm to cement the torn flap. It sealed neatly.

  The Guardian, no longer under assault, spread its influence over his skin again, drawing scales of hard salt up his legs and chest. He took a deep breath through the water elemental, then clasped the tectonic lever in both hands and pointed the chisel-end at the woman. “What kinda pikery was that?”

  In answer, she just flexed her fingers, stained with his blood.

  “I think she's—mmph!”

  Cob turned immediately, but it was too late; one of the silver folk had crept up and grabbed Fiora around the waist and face, its arms splitting into myriad tendrils to contain her struggles. “Stand down or we shall remove the female's protections,” it said. “She breathes only at our sufferance.”

  He saw Fiora try to shake her head at him. Her sword-arm was bound down but her hand clutched spasmodically on the hilt, as if she could still fight. But the threat was serious; he had no power over the metal-folk and nothing that would let her breathe. The water elemental would be no help.

  Forcing calm upon himself, he lowered the lever and said, “What d'you people want?”

  The jailer looked to the woman. Around them, the silver folk were converging, their false faces disappearing into their metal like pebbles in mercury—an obvious precursor to an attack.

  “I requested my property,” said the woman, her voice clipped and cold. “Your friend denied me. I would have it. I would also have the Guardian.”

  “Why?”

  “It is mine. They are mine. My birthright.”

  Cob shook his head slowly. Even with his suspicions, it made no sense. “Maybe you could grab the Guardian, but that doesn't mean it's yours. I'm usin' it right now. When I'm done, you can pikin' well have it, but I don't think you're its type.”

  “I don't care.”

  “You'll have to. It's got a mind of its own. What d'you want it for?”

  “That is not your business.”

  “No? Because it feels like y' jus' made it so. If—” He caught the angry words before they could come out, and made himself change them. “Listen, can we do this without hostages?”

  She gave him a long look, then nodded to Fiora's captor. To his relief, the elemental released her.

  Immediately Fiora moved to his side and pointed at the woman. “She said she inherited the blade, but that's ridiculous, right? It belongs to—“

  Cob made a stiff shushing motion. “We're gonna figure that out. Without violence.”

  Both women stared at him, one questioning, one suspicious, then Fiora sighed and moved to sheathe her sword.

  The atmosphere around them suddenly changed, the wraith-light dampening while all else grew more vivid, and Cob's heart lurched as he felt the black water surge. A thickness like heat-haze blurred the air, and then there were dark shapes everywhere—wolfish but translucent and huge, their eyes gleaming red in the reflected glow.

  Closer at his left emerged a tall grey-furred wolfbeast. A startled face peeked around it briefly: Lark, a chunk of wraith-crystal glowing in her hand.

  The silver folk stood rigid. “And what is this?” said the woman, her voice deathly calm.

  Cob opened his mouth but could find no good answer.

  *****

  The call broke Ilshenrir's reverie, throbbing through his arm where the piece had been removed. He rose slowly, withdrew the mask he had captured from his 'cousin' Lycharvan, then shook free a layer of his substance to serve as a robe.

  If he sensed right, the call had come from the spire. He would need all the subterfuge he could muster.

  *****

  “Explain,” snapped the woman, waving her hand at the shadowy wolves.

  Cob looked to Arik. In wolfbeast form, he was nearly seven feet tall, his fur bristled out thickly, quills visible. With his lips peeled back from his huge fangs, he was obviously prepared to fight. Ephemeral wings flitted around the sides of his mouth: a cloud-serpent feeding him air the same way Cob breathed water.

  “My friends,” said Cob, trying to keep calm. Beneath them all, he could feel the water rising. Had it been released by the wolves' realm-crossing? Was he still hallucinating? He couldn't tell. “We got separated. They're jus' coming to find me.”

  “To rescue you.”

  “Is there somethin' to rescue me from?”

  The woman narrowed her eyes. Around her and spread among the phantom wolves, her silver compatriots stood still as statues, waiting, watching. He wondered how she had come to command them, and whether the black water could hurt them.

  “Y'can't have the Guardian. Or the sword,” he said, determined to keep it together. “But y'could come with us. I think I know what you want. You're his daughter, aren't you.”

  She took a long stride forward, gaze intent. “You recognize me. You know him?”

  “We've met.”

  “How could you meet? Where? When?”

  “Maybe twelve days ago, in the mountains—“

  “Twelve days?”

  “Yeah, what—”

  She rounded suddenly on the silver folk, ignoring the dark wolves, and began shouting in that harsh language and gesticulating sharply. The elemental nearest her recoiled and said something mollifying, and she jabbed a metal-tipped finger at it and snarled.

  Cob traded looks with Arik. The skinchanger's lips had lowered over his teeth and his ears were cocked, questions writ largely on his furry face. The wolf-shades shifted restively, occasionally glancing toward him for direction, and Cob had to wonder where he'd been—what he'd been doing—in their brief time apart. If he sensed the water, he didn't show it.

  Behind him, Lark fidgeted. Rian clung to her shoulder. And—

  Where's Das? he mouthed at the wolfbeast.

  Arik's ears flattened. He gave Cob a nervous look but did not reply.

  Pikes, he thought, is she still in the Grey?

  Maybe she's the lucky one. If we don't get out of here before the water comes...

  “Hoi,” he called to the metal-blooded woman. “Hoi, look, let's get up on the surface and discuss this proper. It's...not wise to stay down here right now.” She shot him a quelling look, and his hackles rose. “Hoi!” he said again. “If y' don't point the exit out, I'll make a pikin' new one.”

  “You think so?” she said, rounding on him. Her right hand came up, teal sparks jumping between her fingertips.

  He clenched his teeth and braced his hooves on the salt flo
or. That she was a mage just confirmed things. Like father, like daughter. But if she started a fight, he would have very little leeway between retaliating with salt and opening them all up to the danger below.

  Then a sweet, bell-like voice broke into the standoff, and Cob and the woman both turned to seek its source. White-robed, white-masked, it emerged from one of the low domiciles that ringed the spire: a haelhene wraith. It beckoned to the woman and she scowled, gesturing toward Cob as she responded in the same liquid tongue.

  The wraith's mask turned toward him, and through the eye-slits he saw two burning red cinders. At a word from it, the silver people rushed him.

  With a curse, he swept the tectonic lever across at waist level, trying to keep them back. Fortunately, they seemed to fear it. Unfortunately, they did not react like people but like liquids; large sections of their bodies indented to avoid its sweep while others sprouted spikes, and they surged forward again in its wake.

  He caught one in the chest with the blunt end and saw it deform, at first cratered and then rippling uncontrollably. It fell back, and the next avoided getting the chisel-end to the head but took the shaft across the neck as Cob turned with its lunge, desperate to keep its elongating hands from his skin. Throat dented, head whiplashed, and it reeled away.

  Behind him, Fiora shrieked her goddess's name. No wave of heat came.

  He tried to close with her, to put himself against her back, but there were hordes of silver folk on them now and he could not swing the lever fast enough. Needles dug at his shins, and he glanced down to find his ankles swarming with liquid silver; he looked up just in time for one to fling itself bodily across the staff to bind his hands and forearms. He tried to yank away but it yanked back, and suddenly six of them were meshing together to oppose him.

  A shadow darted into the fray—a phantom wolf clawing and biting at his bonds—but one of the non-meshed elementals extended a hand and runes lit up along its substance, gathering into a bolt of energy that blew the wolf to rags of smoke. More blasts lit the chamber, and he heard Arik bellowing, heard Lark's panicked cries.

  Then the tide of silver fell upon him, blotting out all but the rising darkness.

  *****

  Unnoticed on Lark's back, Rian arched suddenly, wide eyes confused. His left hand twitched through a complex pattern he could neither understand nor control.

  A spark of energy passed from his fingertips into thin air.

  *****

  Shaidaxi Enkhaelen sat bolt upright, nearly knocking the mirror from its place again. The image showed sand and salt—the view from his circling hawk. It had been nearly half a day since his last sighting.

  Instead, the alert had been from a splinter.

  Closing his eyes, he concentrated on that pinprick of contact. He set most of his splinters to simply observe—to collect data until the time when he could extract and reintegrate them. Some, though, had missions, like the one that had pinned Cob's soul to the Guardian.

  Or the one in Geraad's pet goblin.

  It was signaling him now. He didn't know why, but with the disappearance of Cob's group, it was bound to be interesting.

  Slumping back in his seat, he unhooked from the corpse he wore and followed the tug. He did not often try to possess an occupied body, but in this case he would make an exception.

  *****

  After one mouthful of mercury, Arik knew biting them wouldn't work, and his claws made furrows that merged in moments.

  But he could throw them.

  All he saw was red. Haelhene magic thrummed the air, so when he wrenched the elemental from the ground—its substance half-shifted from humanoid to something like a mobile cactus—he threw it at the white-robed wraiths who had gathered to observe. They parted silently to let it fly between them.

  It hit the salt floor with a dangerous-sounding crack.

  His arms and hands mended as he synced them with his spirit. Ninke Raunagi's breath was at his back, pushing him onward—making his blood run hot in his veins.

  He regretted crossing over so soon. He should have waited for the haelhene to emerge so that he might get the drop on them, but he had not seen them hiding. The spire's resonance made peering between realms difficult.

  Now he had to defend Lark. She stuck to his back like a burr, smart enough not to stray but otherwise overwhelmed. Her robe had sucked up a shot from a silver one, flaring into a sphere of light that fractured instantly, and now he supposed she was trying to recharge it. He could hear her cursing, feel the cold tingle of power being drained from the vicinity. The wraiths had noted it too, the white hoods now following as they edged toward Cob.

  Wolf-shades swarmed around them, coordinated by Arik's howls. They kept the liquid elementals away from his feet, and through the veil of realms he sensed more on the spirit-side, biting at the elementals' essences without much effect but a good measure of distraction.

  All he needed now was a path to Cob, to rend the silver prison around him.

  *****

  Ilshenrir exited the Grey six yards off the ground and caught himself on an arch of Hlacaasteia's essence before he could drop. It was a thin, fine pane of energy, and would not bear his weight for long, but it gave him a moment to look down on the fray.

  A wild melee of silver, spirit and friend. A narrow band of white: his people lined up to watch, slowly connecting to each other to prepare bonds strong enough to hold the Guardian.

  Join them.

  The thought was a knife's edge. He could connect with his kin and disrupt them, ruin their spell; it would be easy. Or he could assist. Bind the Great Spirit, slay the rest of the mortals, and return to the White Isle in—

  What, glory? More like chains.

  His mouth creased behind Lycharvan's mask. He'd made this choice long ago.

  He dropped down from the spire's essence as lightly as a feather. There were ten haelhene out here and none within, according to its resonance, and he felt confident in his chances. Spellweaving was difficult, wrecking a weave simplicity itself.

  Striding forward, he removed his gloves and focused his thoughts. Connection required a contact of essences; if he did not feel sufficiently haelhene, his kin would notice and turn on him. And perhaps that would be best—he could give them a good fight—but he was determined to at least try to be cunning before he gave in to the Cob way of smashing.

  The haelhene at the end of the line turned its head as he came alongside it. Through the mask slits, he saw the red glow of its eyes and thought, Hlacaasteia's resonance. It will notice my lack. But it extended a bare hand to him, fingers gnarled with crystallization, and he realized that his brief contact with the spire had lent him a false light.

  Clasping hands, he joined the weave.

  *****

  Enkhaelen dropped into the goblin's body like a passenger on a runaway wagon. He did not take the reins immediately; Rian was halfway up a salt pillar, fingers burning and breath coming harsh through the air elemental in his lungs. A snake of liquid silver pursued him, its back coated in razor spikes.

  No, not silver, thought the necromancer. Mercury. Light and Shadow, Cob, you don't half fall into trouble.

  He took stock of his assets quickly. One goblin body, currently independent and not built for magic, with the pressure of its patron spirit already watching him. A moderate knowledge of the enemy—enough to know that Cob's crew was probably doomed. His own powers, which he could not use lest he be identified.

  Pike-all else.

  His vision swung as the goblin twisted, then leapt sideways to avoid a strike by the quicksilver snake. Agile hands caught another pillar, then he was scampering higher, and in the new panoramic view Enkhaelen saw haelhene emerging from the stack of buildings that shrouded the spire.

  Elementals and wraiths... Interesting. Have they been chipping the spire out? Are the quicksilvers bound as servitors, or working as allies? Are they sharing information?

  And here I thought I was ahead in the arms-race.

  H
is questions would have to wait, though he dearly wanted to know why Lord Chancellor Caernahon had never mentioned this. But then, everyone around the Emperor had their own insane agenda. Right now, his required him to get these idiots to safety.

  Unfortunately, his great mistake had broken all his influence over the metal-folk. Looking down at Cob buried in quicksilvers, all he could think was, Lost this one.

  The haelhene knew that the Emperor wanted Cob. They would bring him in, and that would trigger the end-game. It was too soon; Enkhaelen still had too much to prepare.

  I should pull out. Find the next-most-likely vessel and hope the Guardian jumps to it.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  *****

  Fiora fought for all she was worth.

  Her regulation sword did not faze the elementals at all. If not for Cob, she would already be dead; few paid any attention to her while he was there to be dog-piled. The one that had granted her magical breath must have forgotten about it, because it persisted, and her wild swings and threatening stabs did not fend them off so much as her shouts for her goddess.

  But Breana was not listening.

  It was inconceivable that the Sword Maiden would abandon her while she fought fake Trifolders, yet her cries brought nothing. No surge of protection, no holy presence.

  Something's wrong. Something—

  No. This place must be stifling her connection, as the Grey had. She was loath to use the sacred name where others could hear, but it was necessary.

  “Brea Eranine!” she shrieked, and this time she felt it catch and return to her on wings of fire. The nearest elemental registered a look of alarm, then lurched forward, impaling itself on her blade and unraveling into silvery threads that cloaked her hands and arms. She backstepped, alarmed, then realized it was meshing with her armor: creating a light second layer that sprouted with defensive spikes.