Linciard looked to him questioningly, but Sarovy said nothing. He already knew that Chelaith had been assigned here by Prince Kelturin, the former Crimson General. That he was also entangled with this Enkhaelen was no surprise. But what any of it meant, or what he should do about it...
A change was coming. He felt it. He feared it. And he had no idea how to react.
“You have no more to say?” he addressed Chelaith.
The Houndmaster sneered. “I did my job. Didn't ask about the city's other factions, because what did I care? And I haven't had orders in months. If you want to blame the Maker for your problems, or the Prince, or the city, or the cult, go ahead. But I think it'd be wiser to look at the bastards behind you, before it's too late.”
It already is, thought Sarovy grimly.
Chapter 21 – Snakes
Finrarden by day was no different than by night. When Lark stepped out from the inn—the Ragged Hen, to judge by the shabby-looking garto on the sign—the streets were just as full. A troupe of musicians held the center of the plaza, with dancers in modesty-bands and body-paint performing an elaborate mock battle. One side was green, their scales striped with sweat, the other orangey-brown with faux tails strapped to their backsides. An old man in a camp-chair intoned a slow oration in a dialect she could not follow. They had quite an audience, some mouthing the words.
Daylight also picked out the self-segregation of the populace. The shops and stalls bore distinct markers of allegiance: cloth banners hanging from windows or handcart-bars, used as display blankets, or worn as shawls, in a wide number of patterns and sigils that Lark guessed to indicate clans. As she drifted through the plaza, she noticed the same marks on many of the shoppers, who moved together in loose packs and crowded rivals away from the stalls they visited.
Some gave her sidelong looks as she passed, but seemed largely indifferent, even making room if necessary. Toward each other, they were not so hospitable; in one glance, she saw two pairs of packs facing off at different stalls, their outer ranks of leather-clad sword-bearers and wolf-dogs standing guard over the colorfully-dressed adults and children in the center, their leaders snarling insults. Smaller altercations stippled the crowd, always between clan-folk.
She shook her head. It reminded her of the street gangs in Fellen before she'd left—except that instead of small roving groups among a greater mass of unaffiliated shoppers, nearly the whole of the populace moved in these squads. The few outlanders were ignored, but nowhere did Lark see an unescorted clan woman, or clan men moving in less than a trio.
She couldn't imagine living like that—but then, the entire Imperial East made little sense to her. The sooner she left it behind, the better.
Scanning the painted walls led her back to the Shadow mark, and she made a mental note of where it pointed. First, though, she wanted to get her other business out of the way: pawning the fake jewelry, buying the pilgrims' gear, checking for caravans. The temptation to just run off with the Shadow Folk would be too high if she went straight there.
And, of course, there was the fear.
It had gnawed at her all night. Even after a wash and a decent meal, and with an actual-though-tiny bed beneath her, she hadn't been able to close her eyes without tensing up. Were there Imperial agents outside the door? Were those goblin-fingers scratching at the walls? What would she find when she got home, beside ashes and corpses?
She almost didn't want to know, but she had an obligation to her kai, and she had shirked it for too long. It didn't matter what the shadowbloods said; they didn't speak for the unbloods. Cayer had chosen her as his successor specifically to keep them from taking over, and if it meant she'd have to fight them for control...
Well. After this disastrous excursion, she had enough anger to take on the world.
Plus a few new tricks and tools. Her orange robe wasn't rumpled, even though she'd slept in it; just a little bit of will sent through its silver embroidery freshened it up like a wash. She had refilled its defensive runes as well, and by the way the Finrarden folk deferred to her, she supposed she looked like a proper Circle mage. She had no real plan to pursue magic—not least because the eiyets hated it—but she enjoyed the role and the new knowledge.
As for the water elemental, Ripple, it was a comfort but no replacement for Rian. It lay looped across her shoulders like a long transparent snake—another reason for the Riddish to keep their distance—but though she'd taught it a few simple commands, she knew she had no hold over it. Once she left Cob's company, it would probably vanish.
Just as well. I don't think I can nurture anything ever again.
Making a face, she focused on her task and let the comforting buzz of city life strip away her gloom. The painted signs led her through alleys and up side-streets, and twice a lurker started toward her from a sunken doorway only to back away when Ripple rose from her shoulders, shimmering in the dim light she managed to conjure in her fingers. The second man even stammered an apology.
Eventually she found herself in a new district, the east side composed entirely of high wavy-topped walls with compounds nearly invisible behind them. There was little graffiti, only what she guessed to be the owners' insignias painted at the corners—all involving snakes. She remembered Dasira's confessions and quirked a smile, wondering which among these were the assassin's relatives.
The other side of the street held shopfronts with plain green awnings, no insignias showing, and while there were still the roving clan-packs, they were smaller and less numerous. A different breed of Riddish dominated the crowd, many bald, others with slicked-back hair or tight kerchiefs, their clothes all close-cut over narrow shoulders and hips. Though they walked singly and bore no visible weapons, their eyes followed her far more readily than the gangs' did, and her skin crawled.
Also present were a few threes and fives of Sapphire soldiers, who had been noticeably absent by the north gate plaza, and a scattering of white-robed pilgrims and priests. She kept her distance from both.
The signage led her first to a ground-floor pawnbroker's, in which she haggled over the jewelry for a good half-mark with a toothless little tattooed man, feigning indignation at every offer and waxing rhapsodic about the imaginary Valent-based jeweler. The little man was no fool, but she still managed to squeeze a few kifar out of him, and left in a theatrical snit.
Next was the tailor's. Signs pointed to a second-floor shop with white cloth hanging from its window and a ladder leading up to the balcony. A slick-haired young person leaned outside, smoking a cheroot; though the insolent gaze and the leather garb said 'boy' to Lark, the curve of the cheek said 'girl'. Jeten, she guessed.
Just inside the door sat a blunt-faced woman, stitching in the natural light; she wore several layers of shawls and a blanket across her lap, no heating-brazier in sight. No candles either, the shop beyond lit by skylight and tall polished mirrors.
“Mistress,” said Lark, somewhat puzzled. “Do you make pilgrims' robes?”
The woman blinked, and Lark wondered if she should have stuck with a snooty mage-voice. But then she rose, folded her work deftly, and beckoned Lark into the dim, crowded space. “I might have a few left,” she said as she cut between racks of cloth and ribbon, the colors greyed out by the low light. “Pilgrimage started just after fall harvest; you'll be lucky to make it. But of course you should try. It's inspiring to see your kind turn from the Dark.”
Lark's mouth compressed, but she squelched the urge to lecture about the southern Sun God and Moon Goddess. “Yes, I'm sure. Only they're not for me. As you know, a Circle mage is not permitted to go without the traditional robe, even in this circumstance.” She hoped that was true. “I have attendants though. Two men about this tall, and one for a woman about—“
“Man or woman doesn't matter,” said the seamstress. They passed down a chilly hall to a mirror-lit room of shelves and counters, stocked with tools, cloth scraps and folded garments plus half-made pieces pinned to wicker frames. The seamstress bee-lined for
a stack of white cloth and began shaking out robes and holding them up.
“No?” said Lark. “They're all the same?”
“All are judged equally by the gaze of the Light. A bit of cleavage won't help you.”
As they picked through the garments and accessories necessary for the pilgrimage, Lark found herself wryly grateful to be an obvious southerner. Ignorance that would have been suspicious in an Imperial merely elicited a teaching tone from the seamstress: these were the prayer sashes, stitched with scenes of the Light's ascension, and these were the penance cords, knotted and dyed for the weight of guilt upon the bearer's shoulders. These were the blessed sandals, hand-coiled from the same fabric that made the robes, and for the barefoot penitents there were blessed foot-cords as well.
“Why are your lamps doused?” she asked finally.
The seamstress raised her brows, but continued packing the robes into a carry-bag. “It is early, yes, but I have much to repent for, this year. The ritual of Midwinter instructs us to face the Dark in the world and within ourselves, to purge ourselves of it, and to rise again with the Light at the dawn of the new year. No candles 'til then, no fires, no lamps.”
Lark stared. “So you spend half of Midwinter and Darkness Day in the dark? You'll freeze!”
“Only those who lose their faith in the Light, who succumb to the Darkness inside them, freeze. I have seen fifty-five new years, my dear. All in this way.” Canny-eyed, the seamstress handed over the bag, and added, “You should consider the rite of abnegation. Magic springs from the Dark. Its users know nothing of sacrifice, of the Light's pure grace. Attend the rite and be transformed by his gaze.”
The hairs on Lark's arms and neck stood out straight, but she steeled herself and took the bag from the woman's grip. Her fingers were like ice. “I'll...consider it,” she said, and set the coins down on the counter, half-afraid the woman would grab her if she put them in her palm.
Instead, her seamed face broke into a businesslike smile. “Thank you kindly, and may your path be blessed.”
“Yours too,” Lark managed, and took to her heels.
*****
Cob sat on one end of the narrow bed, Fiora on the other. Down below, Arik was still snoozing—or at least making faint wheezing noises to convince them he was. Despite the chill air that seeped through the slit by the roof, they had not managed to come closer than this.
The arrowhead glittered on the blanket between them. At her request, Cob had managed to pull Fiora into the mentalist impression with him, but she had gleaned no more from it than he had. They'd needed to hold hands for it, though, and now he couldn't even look at her.
“So what does this mean for us?” she said.
He sighed. “Well, we know they hate each other. We know vaguely where Enkhaelen is.” He took their remaining vor from the deflated coin-pouch and set it on the bed, behind the arrowhead. “This'll be him, and the arrowhead is the throne. This's the prince—” A bronze rakar, which he placed on the far side of the arrowhead. “And these're the other people. Mages and the like.” A scattering of brass nar.
“In the memory,” she said. “No doubt things will change.”
“Yeah, but all the important people concentrate in this area around the throne, or over here where the mages are. So those are the two places we need to worry about.”
“What about the guards?”
He made a face. Geraad hadn't really pinpointed those, too caught up in the drama near the dais. “Let's pretend the bed's the throne-room. The guards'd be along the walls, right? Pretty far. If we got up to the throne area before someone noticed us, the guards'd never reach us in time, especially if there's pilgrims in the way.”
“All right, but how do we make sure we get that far?”
“I could use some of the Guardian's powers, maybe. There's a herd-mind that affects all of us. I could use that to move us to the front of the crowd without makin' a commotion.”
“But won't they notice you?”
“Don't have to bring up the antlers if I don't want to. Maybe they could sense or see the spirit—especially if they've got wraiths around—but they could probably do that even when it's dormant.”
“Not so easily, though.”
“Y'got a better idea?”
Fiora examined the coins thoughtfully. With her messy braids and deprivation-sharpened cheeks, she looked so different from the girl he'd met at the temple. So much a stranger, and yet the mother of his child...
“Is it a secret room?” she said, pointing at the bright-iron vor that indicated Enkhaelen.
“I don't think so.”
“But are you sure? If it is, there has to be another path that accesses it—one we could maybe sneak down. If it's not, then what? He's in the wall?
“Seems like it.”
“So how do we get him if he's in a wall?”
“Well...break it.”
“How?”
Cob stared at the coin. Having seen the strangeness of the Palace material, he knew better than to think there would be stone or wood around for his use, and doubted he could call any spirits or elementals to aid him. It was questionable whether the Guardian could even operate in there. Haurah's experience had only taken her as far as the Imperial City; once within the enclosed space of the Palace, the Great Spirit might lose its grip like in Erestoia.
It was one big blatant trap, yet he couldn't believe the Ravager was trying to trap him. Not when it was a prisoner itself. If it truly wanted to be free, then it must think he had a way to get to it.
Unless it's rolling the dice just as much as we are.
“The lever,” he said finally. “The wall's not earth, but maybe I can still pierce through.”
“It didn't work so well on the white-armors, though.”
“What other tools do we have? The silver sword is for killin' him, not cuttin' the wall down.”
Fiora shrugged. “If Ilshenrir was here, I'd say blast it. Or—oh! Maybe we can call Enkhaelen out somehow! Challenge him!”
“Right in front of the Emperor?”
“Nowhere else to do it.”
“That's assumin' he's—“
Cob blinked, the words stuck on his tongue. In all this time, he had assumed that Enkhaelen's use of corpse bodies was to keep himself safe and the Ravager locked within him. That his real body was tucked away purely as a defensive measure.
Now, remembering the rage Geraad had sensed in him and all the times he'd shown up to fight their mutual enemies, plus the aid Dasira had reluctantly admitted he'd sent...
Plus the mentalists' needles Geraad had seen in his mind...
He looked from the silver sword to the arrowhead, both so conveniently found or returned to him, then closed his eyes. Erosei. Show me what happened at the Seal.
Silence.
His temper flared. He understood the Guardian vessels' sensitivity toward their deaths, but to hide vital information from him... Erosei! Don't make me come after you!
Nothing.
Very well. Concentrating, he found the sense of depth he had cultivated throughout this long possession: the presence of the ruins and the forested shore, the lurking pressure of the water. He felt cold breath but ignored it, fixing instead on reaching into the murk and groping for the snaky evasive shape of Erosei. Trickles of sense-memory rose as he closed in on it, of rust and wet stone, blood, steel...
His hand closed around a rasp of scales. He pulled.
—and the light was warm yellow, tropical, the sand crunching under his boots. His palms sweated against the leather-wrapped hilts of his paired blades. Ahead, at the curve of the beach, stretched the meager sandbar that guarded the Seal of Water from the full presence of the Lisalhan Sea—perhaps the only reason Enkhaelen could be there under his own power.
Erosei reached out with one hand and beckoned to the waves. Immediately they mounted to wash over the Pillar's edge and infringe upon Enkhaelen's work, but a yard from the mage, they struck an invisible barrier and divided har
mlessly.
A curse rose to Erosei's lips as Enkhaelen raised his head, aware now. But he didn't look back, just focused on the Pillar floor, and where his hand passed, another bloody swath marked the pale material. Next to him, a black-bladed sword lay unsheathed.
“Enkhaelen!” he shouted, needing to draw the man's attention—needing to disrupt this last spell. He knew nothing of magic; he had been too late at Howling Spire, too late at Du'i Oensha to witness the rite the man used to undo his predecessor's work, only fast enough to be smote by the aftermath. If he could not end this after being thrown down a mountain, nearly burned to death and many times evaded on the tempestuous summer sea, then—
The mage gained his feet. Was he done? Was this the end?
He held out his hand, and the hilt of the black sword jumped into his grip. The runes of blood around his feet looked incomplete.
A fight, then. Baring his teeth, Erosei grabbed hold of the sand beneath him and heaved it forward in a wave, riding its momentum as it crashed against the landward edge of Enkhaelen's wards. Blue sparks filled the air as grains annihilated on impact, but there were too many for the spell to hold back; the churning mass ate holes through the panes of magic and began spilling in, with Erosei at its crest.
In one fluid motion, the mage released the wards and thrust out with both hands. A scorching wind smacked into Erosei, briefly lifting him off the sand-wave and kicking it backward. White-hot gobbets flew from it; when he dropped, his feet sank into molten glass.
He only barely managed to fling himself free. The sand he hit was fortunately unaffected; as he rose from a crouch, he saw his wave hanging before Enkhaelen, heat-blasted solid. The mage turned toward him, not even scowling—just staring from a hollowed face, dark hair a mess of knots, bony chest withered by deprivation and carved deep with concentric circles. A tattered robe shrouded his shoulders but couldn't hide the seeping gash on his right arm.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 65
