“Rackmar...”
Contempt wiped out the remnants of the Field Marshal's false charm. “Begone. Go lose yourself in another whore's bosom.”
The prince's face twisted, and he retreated a step, then looked to Ammala. His eyes held the same pain she'd seen in others, too bound by duty or loyalty or fear to act, and in her heart she cursed all these men. These would-be heroes who proved themselves children when it counted.
Then his gaze slid to Rackmar's entourage, and in following it, Ammala felt her heart skip a beat. Maegotha Cray was there, standing straighter than she had in decades, but it was not from any new vitality; her eyes were blank, her mouth slack, nothing left in that withered white-robed shell but the puppet-strings that made her move.
At her side was a smaller form, a boy...
Mist clouded Ammala's eyes, fracturing her sight into a million shards. She wanted to scream denial, to claw and bite and kick, but her bonds were too strong. This nightmare held her like quicksand, with no hope of escape.
Clenching her teeth, she blinked rapidly, determined not to let them see her weep. She'd tried to shoulder her husband's stoicism after his death, but it wasn't in her nature; tears and wrath came long before acceptance. She'd driven Paol away like that.
She couldn't afford it now.
Goddess, grant me calm, she thought. Grant me the strength to avenge my mother-in-law and my sons, and the cleverness to find my daughters. Grant me a cold heart, just for now. I will weep when this is done.
By the time her eyes cleared, the prince was gone, the last echoes of Rackmar's mocking laughter dying from the hall. “Get her under control,” he told his minions with a negligent wave.
The two guards stepped aside, still maintaining their weird tendril-lines, and a moment later Ammala felt an itch in the back of her skull that swelled and spread until she could barely feel her limbs. Walk, said a voice in her mind, and like an automaton, her body obeyed.
After several pulling, kicking steps, the tendrils released her into the crowd. She did not resist the psychic impulse, not even to approach her kin; the tightness in her chest told her it was best if she did not see them. She did not think she could stop the scream once it started.
Instead, as the mind-control eased, she raised her gaze to the Field Marshal's back. She could not reach him now, but if there was to be a conflict, his defenses might lapse.
And she would have him.
Chapter 29 – Games Over Cages
More than a day after following Erevard and his black blade over the side of the White Road, Dasira still had not caught up.
Not for lack of trying. Her condition and her size made it difficult to move through the sludgy water—sometimes the only option when the grassy tussocks ran out. She could see him ahead, a white figure delineated against the brown and grey, and sometimes she felt his gaze on her, but he didn't seem to care enough to turn and face her. His sword led him on, like Serindas had once led her.
She counted herself fortunate that he was the only one of his patrol to enter the swamp. While she hadn't been close enough to hear their argument, she'd gathered from the gestures of the other White Flames that they were meant to stay on the road and report in, not run off after their prey. It was reasonable; the swamp had its dangers.
Apparently Erevard did not agree.
Around them, the landscape warmed slowly. Ice and frost had vanished, and the water had lost its bite. Further on, it would be tepid, and the trees would still bear all their leaves—perhaps their flowers. It reminded her of the inner Mist Forest, with its blooms and fruiting boughs, and the rumors of the Summerland of Haaraka. She'd never connected the three before, but considering the Emperor's alliance with the haelhene, perhaps she should have. They all denied the cycle of the seasons in the same way.
Except...not entirely. The Mist Forest had hosted birds, and according to Cob the Summerland had been full of animals of all types. Here there were no mammals, no birds, no frogs—not even insects.
Just sickly-looking cyrak trees, with their pale peeling bark and heavy leaves, and ghostreeds and hair-like swamp grass, and silvery soren and faint green young rainbowwood saplings. And fungus. White shelf-fungus growing on everything, plus tiny little whitecaps underfoot.
Pikes, why am I thinking about piking trees and birds and whatever at a time like this? Think about the mission. Think about that bastard. Because...
He was taunting her. Had to be. He was keeping just in sight, moderating his pace, because he wanted her at his heels. He wanted...
What?
A fight? Obviously not. Answers? It wasn't like he couldn't turn around and ask. To see how far she would follow him?
What did he know?
She looked up from pulling herself onto another tussock, panting, and realized that he had stopped. He was standing there among a patch of cyrak trees, his back to her, the sword lowered at his side.
A bout of nerves clenched her heart. Had he lost track of Cob?
She considered holding her position, but practicality advised that she make up the distance while it was possible. Carefully, scanning the white-marked woods with every step, she crept closer to him, all too aware of the splish and schluff of her boots in the muck.
Serindas came to her hand without thought. His hunger tugged her forward; it had been a while since his last feeding, and she felt its lack as well. Her threads could only mend so much, and the supplementary energy the dagger provided would be welcome.
Very soon now, she thought, though she could not put much confidence in it.
She was a stone's throw away when he spoke.
“The red blade. I was trying to remember where I'd seen it. But I know now.”
She halted shin-deep in the marsh. He had not turned, yet his voice was pitched low, confidential, as if he knew just how far away she stood. Perhaps he could see through his White Flame armor—it had many benefits, for all that it was a walking prison—but with the helm off she thought not. He was just aware, and calm, like the bait for a trap.
“Red light in the badlands night,” he went on, the black sword quiescent in his hand. “All the way to the river. Are you Darilan Trevere...?”
“Why do you ask?” she said, though she knew well enough.
He turned then, first just glancing back and then shifting to face her, his feet steady despite the slick-looking bank of moss beneath him. A hint of Serindas' red glow reflected in his eyes, but his expression gave away nothing.
“You're not him...but that is his blade,” he said thoughtfully. “Which makes you...his inheritor? Or his new self? I have seen how faces change here. I'd never suspected.”
His tone was conversational, almost dreamy, and the hairs on the back of her neck went up. They had never interacted much in the Crimson camp; she had stuck to Cob's side and Erevard to Fendil's, their only social contact through their partners. But she had seen the violence in his eyes even then, and from what she'd heard after Cob's escape, he'd been ready to boil over at any provocation.
Conversion wiped away many things, but not anger.
“What does it matter?” she said.
“If you're him, then you were there.”
In a blink, she saw it. The sword in her hand, Cob's shocked face. Fendil, there at the periphery, unimportant except as an object lesson.
“Yes,” she said.
“The only witness.”
“Yes.”
“You failed to stop him.”
“I did worse than that,” she said. She was done with lying, especially when it could mean Cob's life. “I killed Jas Fendil. I took Cob's sword and rammed it through his throat and left him there for my own purposes. Cob was never involved.”
Erevard's eyes widened, star-shaped ruengriin pupils flaring. His hand convulsed on the sword hilt, white strands locking tight to it. “Why should I believe you? You aided his escape.”
“Then I hunted him down. I nearly killed him.”
“Are you still trying
?”
“No.”
The tip of the black sword rose from the moss. “Then I can't let you go.”
She smiled flatly, about all the confidence she could muster. He had reach on her, and armor that didn't stick to his shins or weigh him down with mud. Serindas could cut it but any other blow she landed would be absorbed, and as she forced herself forward, she saw his hand rise to the lump of helm to pull it on.
“Why bother avenging him?” she said quickly to keep him from sealing himself in. She needed every advantage she could get. “He was a nobody, just some criminal piece of scum. You could've—“
Snarling, Erevard flung himself from his perch, spraying green water and mud in a wave as he hit the marsh. The murky bottom jerked him up short, giving her the chance to close the distance.
Serindas caught the black blade as it delved for her, driving it across his body in a shower of gory sparks. She flipped her grip and drove for Erevard's wrist. Rather than pulling back, he moved into her and brought his elbow up; she tried to bend away but the muck had her too, and he clipped her in the cheekbone hard enough to rattle her shattered ear-socket. A stagger, a reel, and then she straightened just in time to block a vicious slice.
He moved into the clinch, crossbars locked, trying to overbear her. He was a handspan taller and probably twice as heavy with the armor, and the mud under her feet indented as she leaned into his push. Her boots slid while his stayed planted. As he forced the black edge toward her face, his other fist swung up into her ribs.
The impact sent black stars through her vision, but she ignored them, snarling back at him and accepting his follow-up punch; only the rotblade meant anything. Dark vermilion light crackled at the points where the two blades touched, and Serindas vibrated beneath her fingers, filling her head with songs of bloodlust. There seemed no dominant weapon. Despite their lengths, they had the same rage, the same virulence.
That was good, since nothing else was matched.
She jabbed a thumb at his eye and nearly lost the arm when he swiveled his sword toward it. Her angle was bad; she needed to in-fight to have any chance at scoring a hit but she could not let him get the rotblade free, could not risk a touch. The ice rapier at the border of the Mist Forest had been one thing, but if she got cut and her hand rotted off, taking the blade from him would not bring it back.
He knew it, and his snarl became a sneer. He shoved her and tried to step back to put her at sword's length; her feet almost went out from under her. She caught herself in a crouch and half-lunged, half-waded in pursuit. As steady as Erevard was in the muck, he still sank into it more than she did, making her swifter, and when he cut at her on the approach, she caught his blade at the middle with Serindas and forced it overhead.
Then she turned into the circle of his arms, back to his chest, and rammed the top of her skull into his jaw.
His head rocked, and again he tried to move away but she crammed her side against his forearm and grappled with her free hand at the hilt. Bound to his gauntlet by the white strands, it would not come free—but he was new to the armor and the blade, and tried to pull away as if she really could take it. His other hand latched onto her face as if to peel her off and spin her away, but he had lost track of Serindas.
Which she sank backhand into his sword-arm.
A shout, a shove, and she was stumbling through the mire again, spine prickling with the sense of impending stab. She recovered just in time to turn and deflect his lunge, but not avoid his bulk as he barreled into her, driving her down into the water.
She floundered, boots scraping uselessly against the slick bottom, and saw death in his eyes as he raised the black sword. But his shoulder spasmed, a dark red stain standing out on the whiteness there, and she managed to half-glide half-roll out of the way.
A tussock loomed up beside her. She grabbed frenziedly at its slick leaves and managed to pull herself upright to defend, Serindas forcing aside the black sword right before Erevard rammed his shoulder into her face. Down she went—down and backward over the tussock, nearly nailing her head against a tree, and then the tree was falling toward her with black rot crawling up its trunk.
It clipped her despite her desperate scramble, flattening her into the marsh. Thin reeds snapped beneath her, splinters puncturing her skin, murk and water trying to swallow her whole. As she squirmed out from under the trunk, she glimpsed Erevard pacing around from the other side, easy and sure as a hunting cat.
“Trevere,” he said, “or whoever you are, I would have thought you'd understand. Maybe you weren't as close to Cob as I was to Jas, but you kept coming back. Not even to talk, just to sit with him. Just to be there.”
She tried to ignore his words as she scrambled up, but they cut deep. They'd had something back in the Crimson camp, her and Cob, and it wasn't a romance but it was more than she'd had in all her years. And she had murdered it.
“Jas and I thought you were good for him,” Erevard continued, pacing her retreat, the point of his sword tracking her heart like a lodestone. “Whatever you were getting out of it—who knew?—but he lit up when you were around. Stupid, all of us. And you too, by that look on your face.”
“It was a mistake,” she said.
“Too late.”
He came on in a frenzy, and it was all she could do to stay upright, to track the flicker of his eyes and intercept his blade before it could score its kill. The sodden robe dragged at her, snagging on every submerged root and reed, and the headscarf that concealed her bad ear was plastered to her brow, seeping fetid water down her cheek. Ready to plunge across her vision at any time.
She tried to swing toward obstructions, to hide behind a tree or hummock and momentarily escape his reach, but he pressed relentlessly. The air between them bloomed with bloody sparks. She could not match him—not like this, unarmored, exhausted, hurt.
But if she ran...
“He was never involved,” she said, deflecting another jab mere inches from her face.
“You killed my love,” said Erevard. “I'll kill yours.”
Fine, then, she thought as she braced her feet for a final lunge. If you won't stop, we'll go together. Two twisted souls rotting in the mire. Let Cob have his new life without the baggage of the old. Let it go, and die victorious. Die—
He intercepted her strike not with his sword but with his gauntlet. Serindas went through the white armor into his hand. As he locked his fingers on the crosspiece, he drove forward with his own blade, and Dasira—shocked to be caught in a way she had so often used on others—did not let go, or drop, or even cry out as the black sword skewered her.
It went in just above the left hip and came out on the other side of her spine. She swayed backward and its hideous edge tore her wide open. Ichor surged into her throat, already combating the bloom of rot, but there was no escape.
He let go of Serindas and it slid free, depriving her of her last support. As she crumpled into the water, she saw the black sword rise again.
Then the murk closed over her.
*****
Light.
Motion, dim and distant.
And a voice...
She floated slowly in a radiant haze, watching shadows move upon it like finger-animals projected on a wall. Silly, pointless. Her limbs tingled, too heavy to move. She was tired. She wished the shadows would go away and let her bask in that warm glow, like sunlight...
Like the Palace.
Awareness pricked her, turning the lassitude to fear. The pins and needles that defined her limbs became fiery nails, and she jerked against them, confused, frightened.
A shadow swelled against the mist, condensing darker until she felt a weight on her brow. 'Hush,' said someone. 'Thrashing doesn't help.'
Am I dead? she said.
'Only if you keep irritating me.'
She knew that voice, that tone, but she couldn't seem to form the name. You.
'Yes, me. Now be still. This is far worse than last time.'
She tried to
open her eyes but they felt glued shut. Light slid in through the cracks, blue-black and blue-white, and within it the shadow—that familiar sharp profile.
Piking shit, she thought, then the darkness came again.
*****
“Wake up.”
Her eyes popped open as if she had simply been waiting, though she could not remember a moment before the voice. That wretched, arrogant, self-satisfied—
“Don't look so happy to see me,” said Enkhaelen as he leaned into view. “We wouldn't want you to strain your smile muscles.”
She scowled automatically, and he said, “Good, that's the Vedaceirra I know.” He set an icy hand on her cheek and pulled down her lower left eyelid with his thumb, then leaned in to examine. “Proper pupillary response. Can you track my finger?”
He waved it over her face and she glared but obeyed. It wasn't the first time. He had gone through the same tests when he had first tossed her into this body, and many times before when she had returned to the Palace damaged.
“All right. Say something.”
“Something.”
He gave her a flat look. “Say something not meant to aggravate me, like 'thank you for rescuing me, Maker'.”
She snorted, but then the memory of what had come before struck. With a gasp, she tried to sit up but only managed about an inch.
Looking down, she found herself naked but for a cloth across her breasts and another at her crotch—and the rest of her cut open. From breastbone to pelvis, the skin and muscle had been furled apart like a flower to show a red-black soup within.
A frisson of horror ran up her spine, and her throat convulsed, but nothing came. All the pertinent bile-producing parts had been removed.
“Lay down,” said Enkhaelen tightly, pushing at her shoulder, and she obeyed with swimming eyes. She had been in dire straits before, and the familiar tang of the ichor of last resort still coated the back of her mouth, but looking into her own guts was a new experience.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 89
