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

by H. Anthe Davis

  “I will stay,” said Ilshenrir.

  All eyes turned to him. “No,” said Cob. “Absolutely not.”

  The wraith shook his head. “I cannot enter the spirit realm. Not even under your aegis. You may try if you insist, but no caiohene can cross that gap—not even the northern kind who befriend the spirits. Nor should I remain with you. I have...committed a crime.”

  “I saw the wings. I know who you were shootin'.”

  “Yes. But it is not who I shot.”

  He couldn't argue with that. Releasing Fiora, who had managed to steady herself, he stepped toward the wraith and clasped his shoulder. Staring into that mask-like face, he said, “Tell me you're gonna flee, not actually stay. There's nothin' you need to prove—“

  A pain shot through his chest and ran down his arm, and he looked down in shock to see blood-red vines erupt from his skin. They lashed his hand to Ilshenrir, then punched holes in the wraith's brittle substance and flowed inside, stitching him full of red lines. He jerked under Cob's hand, crystalline eyes suddenly bloodshot, real—his whole form rippling to skin and hair and petals and vines, until it was only vines, pulsing and contracting over his narrow frame.

  Then they became translucent, their details smoothing like flowing glass until they merged with the body beneath them. Ilshenrir swayed in Cob's grip, blinking—gashes mended, form somewhat humanized again. The wraith touched his own cheek, then shivered and started clawing at it, stiffened fingers screeching horridly against the underlying crystal.

  “Stop, stop,” said Cob, grabbing his wrist. It felt weirdly fibrous, and he realized that the exit-wounds in his own skin had healed, the throb of the thorn gone from under his right collarbone. The left one still lingered, itching like nettles.

  The look Ilshenrir turned on him was tortured, beseeching. Then those emotions snuffed like a candle, his expression subsiding to neutrality. “I have a new mission,” he murmured. “Guardian, you must go.”

  Mouth dry, Cob hesitated. He didn't know what the vines wanted, or if they were friends or foes; all he recalled was Ilshenrir at the border of Haaraka, explaining that he could not enter lest the Thorn Protector eat him. “You're— Are you...?”

  “I am well,” said the wraith, gaze distant. “Please. Go.”

  Cob released the wraith's shoulder and took a step back. Immediately, Ilshenrir turned to face the spire, which still flickered with disturbances. Sand sifted down from the portion of the ceiling it rested against; it was perhaps only a matter of time before it collapsed further.

  As he moved away, Cob glanced back to the others. Fiora was bracing herself on the lever, coughing into her sleeve; she looked haggard and blistered but had already retrieved the silver sword, and offered him a tremulous smile. Arik had set down Lark, who once again held Rian's sad bundle to her chest.

  Catching his gaze, she glanced up fiercely. “If we go to the spirit realm, we can find him. Right?”

  He didn't have the energy to gainsay her.

  Beckoning them close, he lifted the lever and let the pull of the Guardian's essence slide them between realms, leaving Ilshenrir behind.

  Chapter 15 – Lineages

  Enkhaelen watched Hlacaasteia subside with a deep sense of concern. His dead hawk had arrived on the scene just in time for the fall, and despite the dust and salt that plumed high above the hole, he could see it down there, pulsing like a heart. With its daylight exposure limited, it would gather less power for itself and its inhabitants, but it had been broken free of the encasement that had held it tight for centuries. He would have to warn Kelturin. The haelhene would step up their efforts to get the spire's key back.

  If he'll take advice from me anymore.

  It was a gloomy thought, so he forced himself to brighten. If not, I impress the danger upon him in another way. Something fun. Just part of the game—all a part of the game.

  That aside, the size of the quicksilver complex around Hlacaasteia concerned him. Another threatening move from Lord Chancellor Caernahon. That bastard knew how he felt about metal elementals, and forging allegiances with them could have spelled his end.

  But it seemed Cob had taken care of that.

  Cob, Cob, Cob.

  Enkhaelen laughed softly. He had no doubt that he would soon spot the boy and his companions climbing free of the mess they'd made. They were good at disruptions. Not so good at getting anything done, but foxing other people's plans? Brilliant.

  The concern now was that Cob would fox himself.

  The Dark doorway he had opened was troubling. Enkhaelen had not expected that amount of instability. Resistance, yes; it was one of the things about Cob that felt familiar, that he understood. He liked a bit of defiance in a person.

  But the sudden swing from Light to Dark? He had thought the boy would stick in the middle. It wasn't easy to shrug off the beliefs of a lifetime, even when the world had been turned upside-down. Or had he pushed so hard that the boy went right off the other side of the cliff?

  Maybe this will work out better, him a mouthpiece for the Dark rather than just the Guardian's skin-suit. A bigger clash, a bigger gamble. Impressive, right? Dramatic?

  After all, our glorious Emperor's entertainment is the goal.

  Dimly he felt the attention of his wardens, and squelched the sarcasm from his thoughts. They tolerated a lot from him, but they recorded it all too, and he would rather not have his true feelings bared to the Emperor.

  'Enkhaelen.'

  “Pikes!” he shouted into the silent chamber. He should have known better than to be caught thinking about this. Now they knew that he knew. “Yes, what?” he muttered.

  'Come to me.'

  “I'm busy!”

  The silence was deafening. He felt a tug on the cord that allowed him to stay in this corpse, far from his true body, and snarled, “Yes, I understand. I'm on my way, you festering fuck.”

  A frisson of amusement went through his head: the mentalist's translation of the Emperor's laughter. Resisting the urge to screech further, Enkhaelen stomped to the portal-frame, cued up the Palace's coordinates, and crossed.

  The path to the throne-room was all too short this time, and the room itself all too empty. The usual complement of mentalists stood half-hidden among the filigree and the Empress slept in place like a favorite doll, but otherwise it was just the Emperor and Caernahon on the dais. Though deep in conversation when he entered, they quieted as he stormed up the steps.

  “Pike you both,” spat Enkhaelen as he planted himself on the penultimate step.

  The Lord Chancellor tilted his head but showed no other reaction. He had always blended in with the walls here: a pallid man in a pallid realm, berobed and slippered like all of the Emperor's close servants, his hair a smooth white waterfall, his face etched deeply with age. He wore no whiskers, no beard, and while from floor-level it might seem that he was affecting some of the style of the Emperor himself, from the top of the dais it was clear to any knowing eye that he had never been capable of facial hair. He was not designed for it.

  Even the age-lines were false.

  “You have gone too far, Enkhaelen,” he said through unmoving lips. His eyes, up close, held thin panes of painted sclera around crystalline iris, the pupils just dots of black. His skin was flexible but artificial; in this company, there was no need to keep up the façade, and so it sat on him like a mask. “Sending your game-pieces to destroy my stronghold...”

  “Don't even start,” snapped Enkhaelen. “Aradys told me to keep my hands off the board, and so I have. What that lot did, they did alone, and I—“

  “My agents reported your presence.”

  “I was observing!”

  “You interfered.”

  “To fix an issue with one of my game pieces—which failed, I'll have you know. I made no move against yours. I didn't even try to protect mine, so don't you dare accuse me.“

  The Lord Chancellor looked to the Emperor, who observed them from a posture of indolence, lips quirked in amus
ement. His sunlight-colored eyes were human for once, their power unnecessary. “Am I to adjudicate?” he said mildly. “For I don't see a concern.”

  Enkhaelen glared. “You called me here!”

  “At Caernahon's behest. You've barred him from contacting you personally.”

  “Because he keeps trying to capture me. Do you not see a problem with this?”

  “Should I?”

  “The next thing he'll say is that you should give me to him as punishment. He and his people do it every time!”

  “Perhaps you should cease harassing them.”

  “I don't harass them! They harass me!”

  “Birds,” said Caernahon crisply. “Dead birds at Erestoia By-The-Sea.”

  Enkhaelen crossed his arms over his chest. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

  “Shaidaxi, I'm hurt,” said the Emperor in a tone that was anything but. “You truly think that I would turn you over to another, even an ally? I value your efforts and your input, both of which rely on your soul's freedom. The answer, as always, is no.”

  Through his flesh-mask, Caernahon made a credible sound of disgust.

  Enkhaelen took a moment to compose himself. He was not reassured; over the course of their partnership, Aradys had made many promises he had not kept, and there were so many ways to imprison a soul. A few could even maintain this current equilibrium.

  And the haelhene wanted him badly. Even before his time, they had hounded the Ravager relentlessly for control of the Seals, and had allied with the Emperor for that reason. But to be free, they needed the Seals not just opened but destroyed, the entire working brought down—and the Emperor did not trust Enkhaelen enough to let him tamper with them again.

  The haelhene respected the Emperor, but that would not restrain them forever.

  “Then perhaps you will consider returning Hlacaasteia's key to us,” said the Lord Chancellor. “Your son has no more use for it.”

  Enkhaelen rolled his eyes, not even bothering to say he'd called it.

  “Alas,” said the Emperor, “but I value your people too much to relinquish it. It is, after all, the mark of our union.”

  Uncharacteristically, the Lord Chancellor did not object, just turned his crystalline gaze to Enkhaelen again. The necromancer fought down his hackles. It was difficult to stay nonreactive here, and most of the time he let his behavior run rampant because it amused Aradys and annoyed the others, but Caernahon's stare was far too knowing.

  I missed something. But what?

  His mind raced over his recent tangles with the wraiths, his treatment of Kelturin, and his observations of Cob and company. There were a variety of unusual moments, from Erestoia to Haaraka to his own front yard, but nothing that should make Caernahon seem so smug. Perhaps the Lord Chancellor thought him attached to Ilshenrir because he had spared the wraith's life? It was true that they'd had some connections, but not enough to make Enkhaelen care.

  Perhaps the haelhene had some nefarious plan for the Prince? But it would be difficult for them to pull anything off while Kelturin was stationed here in the Palace. Aradys was not likely to be tolerant.

  Then what? What?

  “I believe that is all, Your Majesty,” said Caernahon abruptly, looking back to the Emperor. “Though of course I would prefer that you change your mind.”

  “Perhaps next time,” said Aradys, then made a dismissing motion toward Enkhaelen. “You may go.”

  Enkhaelen's desire to be anywhere but the Palace overrode his urge to fume and stomp his feet and demand answers, and he was down the dais and out of the room before another word could be spoken. The return path was blessedly short, the portal-connection swift, and then he was back in the comforting darkness of his laboratory, among the dead.

  He took several deep breaths. This body didn't need them, but his distant brain recognized the attempt, and after a little while he began to calm.

  Then a soft tone sounded—one of the chimes that warned him of approaching visitors—and he twitched and looked to the door. His minions hardly ever bothered him, preferring to dedicate their time to their passions while they could, and his other agents only visited by portal.

  Another tone, louder: someone passing the second gate in the corridor that led to the lab.

  Very few people were tagged for automatic access. Sifting through them, he lit upon the only one who should be here now—Geraad Iskaen—and forced himself to relax. Yes, I suppose I have neglected him. And a friendly face would be a nice change.

  He swept a glance across the mortuary slabs. He had a plethora of books and objects he had been meaning to 'accidentally' leave in sight, but he didn't feel like scurrying for them. Whatever questions were on Geraad's mind right now would have to suffice. However, he did cover up a few of the more distasteful cadavers. While he usually enjoyed watching his visitors squirm, Geraad was...different.

  The loudest tone announced a presence outside his door. He waved a hand at it and the obsidian spiraled back into the frame to reveal the mentalist at the threshold, face carefully composed.

  For a moment, he thought of the goblin, and how that mask would fall if Geraad knew. Would he cry, shout, run, attack? It was so difficult to tell. But Enkhaelen knew better than to test it. The pragmatic part of him had been grinding its teeth for four hundred years, and would no longer wait.

  This was not the time to scare away an asset.

  *****

  Geraad hesitated in the doorway, eyes on the necromancer. It had been seven days since he sent Rian with his message—seven days in which he had not been called to the lab. To be here now felt dangerous.

  After acknowledging him with a nod, though, Enkhaelen turned his back and moved to the scrying mirror. “What is it that you want, Iskaen?”

  “I—“ Geraad blinked. “You scheduled me to come here.”

  The necromancer's hand paused half-raised. “What?”

  “You scheduled me. It is the 30th...yes? Noon?”

  Enkhaelen stood silent, head cocked as if trying to remember. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he said finally. “My apologies, I've been distracted. What were we scheduled for?”

  “I...don't know, master. You arranged it.”

  “Oh. What did I...”

  As Enkhaelen cast about the chamber, Geraad stepped inside. The door sealed smoothly behind him. He felt uneasy, watching the confusion on the necromancer's face; normally he was so focused, so cutting. Now, though, he looked almost distressed.

  “Aha!” he said, jabbing a gloved finger at the far side of the room. “Yes, that's it. I need your assistance with some materials-disposal. Those crates over there have the disposal cloths. You need to wrap one around each of the objects on the workbench behind them. Once they're all wrapped, repack them in the crates.”

  “That's... Is that all, master?” said Geraad, thinking, What kind of ploy is this? But Enkhaelen just nodded and made a dismissive motion, turning his attention back to the mirror. Perplexed, Geraad cut through the rows of mortuary slabs toward his task, trying not to see the shrouded shapes he passed.

  Three chest-high crates had been stashed within arm's reach of a dropcloth-covered workbench and its accompanying stool. Geraad edged up to the bench and lifted the corner of a dropcloth carefully. He had no experience in materials-magic but had known enough Artificers to be aware that anything in need of complex disposal was probably dangerous.

  Lined up beneath the cloth were the badly-fused crystal daggers that Enkhaelen had been working on when he called Geraad in to maintain the spell. His gut clenched; had it been his mismanagement that brought about their disposal? But they had been this way from the start, the grain and cleavage of each segment almost purposefully mismatched, and when he touched one, he felt the solidity of its finalizing enchantment.

  This was not an ill-wrought object, or an unfinished one. This was something deliberately crafted to be bad.

  He let the dropcloth fall and moved to the first crate. The top had been levered
up from its nails but not removed, and he fumbled to get it down without harming himself. Inside, he found not rags or protective wrappings but piles and piles of neatly-folded white robes.

  He lifted one out and shook it loose, then stared. It was a penitent's robe complete with cord, identical to those he had seen on the Palace's pilgrims.

  Looking from the workbench to the crates and back, he felt an idea begin to coalesce. There were enough, perhaps, for all the men and women who populated this complex—who served as Enkhaelen's assassins in exchange for the remission of their pain. He imagined them in white robes with these strange blades in their hands, filling the space at the foot of the Throne. A rebellion? An arcane working?

  He burned to ask Enkhaelen about it, but if the necromancer had assigned this peculiar task to him, that meant he wanted it to stay hidden from eavesdropping mentalists. As he removed the dropcloths from the bench, he found a second task: a pile of tightly folded notes, each labeled with When the tingle starts, read me, and another note that said One per bundle.

  Geraad stared at them, then looked to Enkhaelen and found the necromancer slouched on a stool, desultorily directing the hawk in the mirror. What will happen if I read one now? he wondered.

  But they were not for him, and he had not the heart to spy. He had done enough of it already.

  So he set to work, pulling robes from the crates and inserting a blade and note into each, then binding them up with their pilgrim's cord. The repetition made it easy for his mind to wander—to dwell on all the questions that still hung over him. How he felt about this situation, these people, the necromancer. The Circle. The Empire.

  “Master,” he said finally, working by reflex, “why am I the only true mage down here?”

  It took so long for Enkhaelen to respond that Geraad glanced over to check if he had been yanked from his body again. But he was still there, back turned, tapping at the mirror. “I don't trust anyone,” he said at last.