“You know, we could play something more exciting,” she said. “Like Scatter.”
He looked up at her wryly. “That's where you throw the deck in the air and run away?”
“Yes.” Cards half-concealing her hand, she made two quick Shadow signs:
With you.
She saw them register, something like pain twinging behind his eyes. He glanced toward the front of the line, then down at the cards—then up again with a look of alarm.
Frowning, she started to ask, but then heard murmurs from ahead and the shifting of robed bodies. A glance showed her the pilgrims pressing close to the wall to let a troop of figures pass, their leader a barrel-chested older man in white-lacquered ceremonial armor.
Maevor hissed in a breath and started scraping the cards together. “Get up, get up,” he murmured, and Lark lurched to her feet without question. Dizziness made her wobble; a rough hand took her by the arm and pushed until she found herself pressed lightly to the wall.
Heavy footsteps neared, passed—then halted.
“You, southerner,” said a deep voice. “And you, escort. Step out of line.”
Lark blinked her eyes clear to see Maevor standing before her. More than a dozen blank white helms stared at them, along with the black eyes of the burly man, yet still he hesitated.
She lifted her chin and stepped past him. She knew when the game was up.
The burly man eyed her over, then stepped in and grabbed her by the throat. Startled, she could do no more than squawk and grapple at his gauntlet as his plated fingers squeezed.
“I am pleased to see that the reports are accurate,” he said, indifferent to her struggles. “I was not given your name, but it is enough that you were with the Guardian. Come quietly and you may see tomorrow; resist and I will break your neck. It matters not to me.”
Heart pounding in her ears, she pried at his fingers for another long moment before she managed to master herself. His eyes pinned her, overbore her, and the sneer on his bearded lips only widened as she let her hands fall.
“Good,” he said, then yanked her by the neck and thrust her into his retinue. Many hands caught her. “And you, agent—“ He stared at Maevor for a long moment, then grinned. “Ah yes, one of the camp-mates. You come along too.”
“Field Marshal, sir, what is this about?” said Maevor in a voice that sought to be courageous but quickly shrank. “I was told to bring her before the Throne.”
“We have a target. The Throne can wait.”
With that, the Field Marshal strode onward, and the hands propelled Lark after him. She glimpsed Maevor's crumpled face, and thought, Run. If you know what's good for you, just run.
No need for us all to die.
*****
Ammala Cray sat as still as possible, trying to wish away the dizziness, the buzzing in her head—and the rest of this horror.
“Just a bit more lip color, I think,” said the tawny woman who sat before her, tiny brush in hand. She had introduced herself as Lady Anniavela, but Ammala did not think she looked very ladylike; despite being covered in puffs of lace, the slit in her white brocade dress went down to her navel, and the neckline was wide enough to slide from her shoulders if she moved too quickly. Ammala doubted it would be approved for any court.
Overall, though, the effect of the Lady was less sexual than doll-like. There was an unreal quality to her face, her figure, her ringleted hair. When Ammala looked down at her own hands, she saw the same contrived perfection.
“Eyes up,” said the Lady sternly, and Ammala lifted her chin and allowed the tiny brush to trace her lips. Beyond the Lady stood a white-robed female mage, fairer and somehow sickly-looking, who watched them through a mirror-frame strung with wire. A golden object hung suspended at its center, the whole thing surrounded by a strange shimmer like heat-haze.
“Mm. Not sure about that color,” said the Lady as she sat back. A small table stood at her right hand, arrayed with all manner of paints and powders; Ammala thought they were supposed to be pleasant, but every time the Lady brought something toward her face, she caught an acrid scent.
“Wipe it off and try again?” suggested the mage.
The Lady made a disapproving sound, but nodded. With faint relief, Ammala raised the handkerchief she had been clutching and scrubbed at her lips, trying to ignore the strangeness of her own fingers: the loss of decades of callus, the new coloration, the clean smooth nails and curious sense of something hidden beneath their tips. So much of her body felt strange now, after her endless dream-time at the Palace's heart.
The Lady held up two little pots of lip-color, one pink and the other also pink. “Which do you think, Ama?”
Before Ammala could comment on the diminutive, the mage said, “Milady, look at her. She's a bronze, not a gold. Pink won't work.”
“Pink is what I have,” the Lady snapped. The mage shut her mouth.
Ammala folded the used handkerchief, her altered fingers at least remembering that chore. She had little opinion on this; other than her wedding day, her exposure to paints had been eye-kohl to cut the summer glare and keep away flies. Anything more was for city girls.
Still, the Lady had told her this was for her benefit, so she supposed she should answer.
“My apologies,” she said carefully, her mouth as strange and new as the rest of her, “but you said that this is meant to make me look 'natural'. Should it not be natural-for-me, and not natural-for-you?”
The Lady huffed and flicked an errant ringlet back. “You should be thankful for my advice. Before me, there was no proper illusion-making process. Do you know how many times I had to have my pendant adjusted?”
“And yet it doesn't work for her,” said the mage.
“You, dear, are meant to capture the image, not to critique it.”
“I've done this for plenty of lagalaina. I know how—“
“If your face is an example of your own work, then I fear for them. I truly do.”
Ammala's mouth flattened. She was not inclined to tolerate such behavior from anyone, toward anyone, but she was hardly in a position of authority. Instead she rose, tottered a moment on her altered feet, then started away.
“What— Where are you going?” sputtered the Lady.
Nowhere was the obvious answer. Their white-on-white chamber had no door, no windows, just a pervasive pale light from its domed ceiling and the strange texture of its rutilated surfaces. The chairs and side-table seemed to have been extruded from the floor. In her fantasy, Ammala lifted her husband's sledgehammer and began battering through the walls; in reality she was afraid to touch them.
“I do not wish to participate in this,” she told the whiteness.
“You have no choice.” She heard the rustle of the Lady's dress, the faint clicking sound of her approach, and tried to pretend that her own bare feet hadn't made the same noise. “Ama, dear, I know it's difficult to accept, but you belong to the Emperor now, and the Emperor requires us to be discreet. If you need some private time to adapt to your new self, we can allow that—and perhaps a pilgrim or two to help you? But we really should get the illusion out of the way.”
“A pilgrim or two?” said Ammala, half-turning.
The Lady smiled encouragingly. “Or more, if your appetite requires. Conversion is draining, but we have no lack of men this time of year. The Emperor won't begrudge a few.”
“Men.”
“Yes.” She frowned. “You don't feel it? You should be ravenous by now.”
Ammala stared at her askance. She was as fond of men as the next woman, and missed her husband Gefron day and night, but she felt no particular hunger. Agitation and restiveness, yes. Anger, frustration. Annoyance.
The last thing she wanted was to wrangle someone's genitals.
“Oh dear, that's not a good sign,” said the Lady. “You'll have to see the Maker. But he'll be busy with the festival, so we might as well just finish your look.”
“And if I refuse, will you tie me down and pa
int me?”
The Lady planted her fists on her hips. “Ama, I have tried to be understanding—“
“Ammala.”
“Ama, dear, don't be like this.“
Had there been normal furniture, Ammala thought she might have flung a chair. Instead she crossed her arms and averted her gaze to the ceiling. She felt ridiculous: trapped, belittled, unheard. To be nearly forty and yet primped-with like an unwilling bride!
“I want my children,” she said tightly.
The Lady gave an unladylike snort. “Throne's sake, did they give you no conditioning at all? I know they're short-handed at this time of year, but they could have at least mindwashed you before they sent you to me. Ah well, you'll forget your children soon enough, and you'll be happier for it.”
Ammala imagined tearing into the Lady with her sharp new nails, or the fang-like protrusions she felt behind her teeth. She was a strong woman, used to exertion and hardship, while this court harlot probably got all her exercise while on her back.
But her first stride toward the Lady somehow became a spring, startling her into a stumble upon landing. Her legs felt strange, tense, and her jaw ached; a crawling itch covered her shoulders and neck.
“Now now, watch your temper,” teased the Lady, but Ammala saw that she had shifted stance, fingers curled, high heels braced on the white floor as if ready to flee or kick. “You're still new to this. It may take weeks to learn how not to run into walls when you get excited. But trust me, it's worth it. We may be required to dote on lordlings, even share their beds, but we have plenty of compensations.”
“Such as?”
“Thralls, oh thralls... As many adoring eyes as you could desire.” Her stance eased and she touched the golden medallion at her throat, the illusion briefly flickering to show honeycomb eyes. “I miss my thralls. Soon they'll be the only humans left, you know. But I had to leave them back in Thynbell lest the Palace overwhelm them...”
Lush lips pursed in displeasure, she stared into the distance, then shook her head. “You'll have thralls soon enough,” she told Ammala. “Maybe some of the northern lords, or those Illanic governors. You're probably to their taste.”
Fury warred with curiosity, but after a few deep breaths, curiosity won. “The only humans left,” Ammala echoed.
“Oh yes, as our worshipful servants and breeders. You can't breed anymore—I hope you don't mind. My generation could, but it was...problematic, so the Maker removed it. We'll have to rely on humans to increase our numbers until he finds the solution, but then...” She gestured grandly. “No barriers to our Empire.”
Ammala looked away, remembering the slaves and conscripts who had marched past her cottage, the blood-bright banners of the Crimson Army snapping above their bent heads and hollowed eyes. Though her son Paol had seen them too, he had chosen to join them—for her sake and that of his siblings. How many more boys had gone down that road, only to fall to predators like the Lady?
Like the Empire itself.
And how many girls? She had thought her family fortunate to escape conquest and ravishment, but now one monstrous man had taken Jesalle, and another had Izelina...
And Aedin, poor Aedin...
Again she felt the tension in her legs, the muscular ease of this altered body, and she wondered what she could do with it.
“Now, are you done?” said the Lady. “I'd like to finish this.”
Ammala opened her mouth, but the wall behind the Lady suddenly dimpled open to reveal a white-armored man. Unlike the other Palace guards, he had his helm off, and his face was strained, his fair hair unkempt. Though most of him was clad in a hazy shimmer, the weapon across his back—perhaps a sword, wrapped in heavy cloth—radiated something more like an aurora.
The Lady saw him, and her face transformed with pleasure. “Kel! Kel, darling—oh, what's wrong?”
The man grimaced. He looked vaguely familiar to Ammala, but in the same broad-shouldered blond way of all those Jernizen mercenaries. She'd never been drawn to that type, much preferring good sturdy midland Illanites like her Gefron, whose dark eyes she could have drowned in.
“The Field Marshal is here,” he said. “I thought we were safe with the teleport block in place, but he must have gotten a portal opened on the road. He's been going through the cells, gathering the people he thinks Enkhaelen's influenced.” Helm in hand, he gestured to Ammala. “Isn't she one?”
Frowning, the Lady looked from Ammala to the man, Kel. “Well yes, I believe so, but...”
“Then we need to go. The two of them are up to something. Even if I can only save one person, I—“
“Save? What are you talking about?”
The man hesitated, turmoil evident on his face, then hissed, “Rackmar wants to take Enkhaelen down, but he doesn't know who he's dealing with. He thinks he can use Enkhaelen's victims to manipulate him, but he's just going to get them all killed. I'm tired of tolerating this shit from them, Annia. I can't fight my father, but at least I can stymie his favorite monsters.”
“What good will that do?” said the Lady. By the way she crossed her arms tight, Ammala gathered she was worried, even though her expression had gone weary. “You'll never be able to stop them. The more you struggle, the more they laugh.”
“I'm tired of standing by.”
She scoffed. “You think protecting one woman will ease your conscience? Or are you just here to gain access to the only lagalaina you haven't fucked yet?”
“Don't start.”
“If the Field Marshal demands this one in the name of the Emperor, I will obey, because they are my masters. You have given me no better option.”
“This isn't about us!”
“Isn't it? If you only come to me when you want something—“
“Pikes, Annia, this is not the time.”
Concerned and confused, Ammala looked to the mage, who had broken off her working to stare at the pair. Catching Ammala's eye, she gave an apologetic grimace but said nothing, which Ammala decided put her squarely in the Lady's camp.
Stepping forward, she said, “I will go with him. No need to bicker.”
The Lady gave her a scathing glance. “No. You sit in your chair. If the Field Marshal wants you, you're his, but until then we still have work to do.”
“Pike your work,” snapped Ammala. “I don't want your paints and powders. I want my children to be able to recognize me when I find them.”
The Lady's lush pink lips pulled back in a sneer. “You're out of luck, my dear. Just look at yourself.”
On cue, the mage tapped her mirror-net, then held it out to Ammala, the gap now filled with reflective silver. Ammala took it despite herself.
A monstrous stranger stared back at her. Dark eyes had been replaced by white-less segmented orbs, farmer's tan by a mottling of bronze. The age-lines on her cheeks and brows were gone, the skin smooth as glazed ceramic, and even her hair was different—not coarse but flowing like dark silk. When she opened her mouth, she saw the new sharpness of her teeth, the kittenish fangs slightly extended, and glimpsed the tip of the barb beneath her tongue.
She dropped the mirror, forcing the mage to fumble for it with a cry of concern. “Take me out of here,” she told the man, who nodded and beckoned.
Flustered, the Lady tried to get in her way. “This is foolishness for both of you. The Field Marshal is not a forgiving—“
Ammala planted a hand square in her face and pushed by.
Invectives followed them as she and the man started down the hall beyond. It was the same white substance as the chamber, but to her strained eyes it seemed like something moved within the walls and floor—at first steady but then in pulses, quickening and brightening as the man chose their route. Intersections breezed by, along with alcoves that perhaps were sealed doors, and spiral stairs, and upper hallways that crossed over theirs like bridges. The man trailed one hand along the wall, and where it touched, the pulse was brightest.
She wanted to ask what she was seeing, or why he
was helping, but they were not the only travelers; men and women in white brushed past them in clumps, leaving little bare space in between. All their faces seemed drained, as the mage's had—the ruddiness gone from cheeks and lips—and in some she glimpsed patterns like white veins beneath the skin. Her eyes burned in the weird light, each pulse ratcheting her headache higher.
Then, abruptly, the light fled from beneath the man's fingers. He kept going for a moment, then halted at a corner, staring down the cross-path as if expecting something.
To his other side, the blank wall irised open.
“My dear Crown Prince,” boomed a voice that sent chills up her spine. The man whipped around, hand rising toward his sword-hilt, then halted when he saw the speaker: a burly black-bearded fellow in matte-white dress armor, a broad stole draped across his shoulders to bracket the etched iron gorget with its symbols of rank. Stepping out from his sides came two Palace guards in their faceless white helms, hands clasped as if clutching invisible blades; behind him, a line of guards mixed with oddball pilgrims snaked back into the depths of the structure.
“Field Marshal,” the man growled.
She didn't need to hear the title. She knew him.
The man who had taken Jesalle.
Without thought, her barbed feet propelled her forward. He was a mere two yards away, throat exposed, and her new instincts screamed for her to plunge her nails through his flesh. She was happy to oblige.
But his faceless guards moved first, whip-like weapons extruding from their fists, and she couldn't brace her feet fast enough to backpedal—not with the strange spurs on her heels. The whips caught her arms and thrust them sideways, neatly stapling them to the wall.
“Ah, and this must be what remains of Mistress Cray,” said the Field Marshal, raking her over and dismissing her with one glance. “Where, precisely, were you going with her, my prince?”
“To my bedroom. Where else?” the prince snapped.
A harsh sound emerged from the Field Marshal's lips, too humorless to be a chuckle. “Is that so. Alas, I must interrupt your newest liaison, for I have need of this woman. I imagine you can find many other willing distractions throughout the city.”
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 88
