“But I failed. I failed, and I have to let go. And so do you.”
She swallowed thickly, remembering that day in Kerrindryr. The crisp Low Country air, the quarry and its ramshackle bunkhouses, the guards. The bruise-eyed boy. She'd forgotten she had a heart until then.
“No,” she whispered.
Enkhaelen sighed. Then he said, “I'll do what I can.”
As he bent back to the task, pulling more threads from the roiling sphere, she let her gaze roam ceilingward. Pike the Palace. She would fight it as she'd fought it when it tried to swallow her, and they would survive, and she would walk out at Cob's side. No doubts.
No other options.
Strands connected faster and faster. Her legs stung as normal circulation started up, the ichor that preserved them surging back to her bracer. She focused on wiggling her toes, flexing her feet and ankles and stretching her hamstrings to encourage the stuff to move out. If it stayed too long in her veins, it became toxic even to her.
And it was better to concentrate on her mending body than to bother Enkhaelen. He spun separate filaments seemingly from thin air—she could see no other source—and braided them in with the Palace strands, and as he added them, her nerves rekindled. She bit back a hiss and worked on her fingers, her forearms, her shoulders.
Finally, Enkhaelen gripped her at the nape of the neck, and an electric burst went down her spine, expanding to outline every thread and nerve in her body. She arched up from the fold-out table, heart stuttering in her chest, then sagged as the energy dissipated.
“Good,” said Enkhaelen, and released her. “Get up, stretch. I'll find you some clothes.”
With a grimace, she obeyed. The floor was ice-cold under her bare feet, the air just as frigid, but she felt a kind of inner warmth, and as she moved through a stretching routine she was pleased to find everything working. Her balance was better, her limbs achy but not weak, her spine painless and flexible. The Palace strands on her abdomen looked like a thin layer of papier-mâché, but when she pressed at them, she felt the musculature beneath, and with some concentration, she found she could work them at will. The whole area felt more solid, like a punching bag, and as she did a few twists she felt the central mass there in her belly, shifting comfortably with her movements.
“I don't keep much women's clothing, but I don't think you'll mind,” said Enkhaelen. She glanced over to see him rummaging through a trunk full of fabric, black and indigo and cobalt and orange, gold and red. “And I have a pilgrim's robe if you need one.”
“Might be wise.”
He tossed her a blue tunic and she pulled it on. It smelled of sulfur and bugbane. “Why are you working out of this tiny place?” she said as she caught a pair of breeches.
“Well, I blew up Valent, which had most of my space.”
“You did what?”
“You didn't see? It's been smoking for days.”
“There's been a lot of snow.”
He looked up, crestfallen. “No one saw? I admit it could have been more impressive; the magma had a very low viscosity so it didn't explode, it flowed. But nobody knows? No one's talking about it?”
“I'm sure many people are talking about it and are very impressed, but I didn't see it.”
“Son of a festering fuck.”
“Can I get a breast-wrap, maybe?”
He flailed his hands in frustration, then went back to digging through the trunk. More articles of clothing flew at her until she was wrapped and belted and moderately armored and pilgrim-robed and tying her hair back with a cord. In mid-tie, she realized that it was neither damp nor dirty, then promptly pushed the thought from her mind.
“Serindas,” she said finally.
Enkhaelen gestured to it, set midway between them. “Go ahead. I won't stop you.”
For all the times in the past that she had tried to kill him, she felt he was sincere. So she crossed that distance and buckled Serindas back into his proper place. His hunger simmered beneath her hand, sullen but subdued as if he knew better than to bare his fangs here.
Enkhaelen was already on the move, to the far end of the chamber where a silver portal-frame was set in the stone wall next to a little painting. “I'll send you to Cob. Unless you object?”
“Not at all. But how—“
He gestured to the painting, and she saw that it was actually a still-image of the swamp. There were dim shapes in the distance, among the trees...
“I set it a few marks ago, so you'll have some catching up to do,” said Enkhaelen, already tapping at the silver frame. A membrane of arcane light swirled within it, slowly clarifying—then opening. The vegetal stink of the swamp rolled in, tepid air conflicting with the dry chill of the chamber.
Enkhaelen cast her a sidelong look. “Do as you must. No matter what.”
She started to reply, to question, but he gestured sharply at the portal. Business as usual, she thought, and crossed. Her new boots sank into the soft moss-clad earth on the other side, and by the time she managed to find solid footing, the portal was gone.
*****
Alone in the storage chamber, Enkhaelen shucked his bloodied robe and removed his hairpins, his boots, his bracers and bands. Some came off more easily than others; they were all drained but some were damaged as well, bent or burnt or melted to the flesh. Others, held by bone-screws so that they would channel their enchantments straight into his body, had to be cut and pried off.
This body had served him well, but its time was over. He had transferred the last of its protections to Dasira to counterbalance the Palace threads—a parting gift—and now he could feel it failing. The strain he'd put it under for the Citadel fight would have damaged even a fresh corpse, let alone one he'd worn for decades.
He set the arcane objects in their proper places on the shelves and tossed the robe on the table, followed by the rest of his damaged clothes, until all that remained was the silver ring on his left hand. One of the many duplicates he wore as a reminder.
He kissed it, then held out his hands and let the fire kindle within them. Fingertips smoked, then glowed, then flamed, and as his hair began to smoulder, he found the thread that connected him to another body on a slab.
Switching his grip, he let this body go and pulled himself toward the other, through a realm of mist and darkness, as the Evoker Archmagus burned to cinders on the cold stone floor.
*****
Geraad Iskaen was nose-deep in an ancient warding tome when the sheet beside him suddenly moved. He jerked away from it and sloshed his cup of tea everywhere. It was cold, having sat forgotten in his hand, but the knee of his robe and the pages suffered all the same.
“Oh no,” he murmured, distressed, then looked to the figure sitting up on the desk. Despite his curiosity, he'd managed not to peek under the sheet at all these past few days—but the man beneath it was not a surprise. Small, pale, black-haired, with the familiar scar through his right brow.
His back and arms were covered with runes in silver thread, some extending up his spine into his scalp. To Geraad's eye, they looked like gibberish. He gave a croak like a squashed frog, then stuck his fingers in his neck, grimacing thoughtfully.
Geraad took a moment to wipe off the pages and set the book aside before standing. Behind him, Tarren and Wydma arose from their little nest, smoothing their robes; with Geraad's permission, they had been making the most of their time. It was easy enough to block them out.
“Nin, kav, nev... Ahem, ahem,” croaked Enkhaelen, then scowled and pinched at his throat further, fingers deforming the flesh like clay. A few more rounds of Gheshvan words, each a bit less raspy, until he nearly matched the voice in Geraad's memory. “Ah, better,” he said, and made a swift pass with his palm to smooth away the marks, then raised his brows to Geraad and beckoned.
“Yes, master?” said Geraad, obeying.
The necromancer regarded him through shallow blue eyes, a null expression on his face. “You're still here,” he said.
“Thi
s is the fourth day.”
“It's the fifth, counting the day I left.”
“You didn't specify how I should count.”
For a moment, Enkhaelen was silent, and Geraad fought not to squirm under his unblinking gaze. It had been his choice to stay; he and the others had discussed the situation yesterday, had even packed their bags, but had finally opted to wait.
Part of it was fear, he admitted. He did not want to go out into the snow, among the still-lurking wolves, and face the wilderness. The post-Enkhaelen future.
The rest was, if not loyalty, at least a kind of determination. He had come this far with these people, and he didn't want to run.
Enkhaelen exhaled through his teeth, then shrugged silver-stitched shoulders. “You're a fool. But I suppose we all are. Here, brace me; I haven't used this body in a while.”
He held out an arm and Geraad stepped in to let the icy hand grip his shoulder, his own settling nervously on the cold flesh over Enkhaelen's ribs. The necromancer slid from the desk, sheet falling away around him, and stumbled on stiff legs until Geraad steadied him. More silver stitchwork marred his belly and groin, his thighs, the tops of his feet. Their intricacy was like nothing Geraad had ever seen.
He waited as Enkhaelen shifted his weight, stretched his free arm, and seemed to find his balance. Finally the necromancer let go and tottered across the room like a colt, and Geraad rubbed at his chilled shoulder, grimacing. Despite his enchanted robe, those icy fingers had made their mark.
“I gave you those gifts so you could go,” the necromancer said as he approached a bare patch of wall. “You still have the option. In fact, I recommend it. Go somewhere nice and balmy, far from the Empire. I'll open a portal if you have a preference.”
“What about you, master?” said Geraad.
“I'm expected at the Palace. Can't let the Emperor down now.”
Geraad stared at him as he scribed tandem runes on the wall with two fingers. One glowed orange, one blue—high and low energy—and as he drew a quick pair of sideways carets, the basalt wall indented to reveal a silver portal-frame. A prod with a finger, and in moments a wavery image of a dark room appeared where there had been bare stone.
A mage-light snapped into being, and the reflections cast back by a thousand panes of glass made Geraad flinch.
As Enkhaelen stepped inside, the glitter dimmed, and Geraad drifted to the threshold to peek. The chamber beyond was roughly circular, the walls grey granite—nothing like Valent. Stone benches and shelves filled the space, covered in tools and glass objects, and a great furnace stood cold at the far side. From the ceiling hung a fine web of chains covered in hooks and baskets, each of which held another glass bauble.
Enkhaelen went straight for one of the shelves, on which stood rows and rows of prisms in all sizes and geometric conformations. While most were clear glass, some seemed made of wraith-crystal, and others were hash-marked or pebbled along one or more surfaces. The necromancer selected three then turned back toward the door, waving Geraad out of the way.
“Enwick. Wydma. Since you're still here, I'm afraid you'll have to come with me,” he said as he swept by. The portal collapsed behind him, bare basalt again. He set the prisms on the desk, then flipped up the lid of a chest that had refused to open when Geraad tried it and started rummaging through dark garments.
“I thought you said we could go,” said Geraad, confused.
“You, specifically. Not all of you.”
Geraad looked to his metastatic companions. Hands clasped, they stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes on their master, but Tarren caught his glance and gave him a lopsided smile and a shrug. “It's quicker this way,” he said as Geraad opened his mouth to protest. “We'd die without the boss to manage our illness, so...”
“Nobody has to die at all!”
“Well, that's not true,” said Enkhaelen. He'd dragged a set of black garments from the pile and was pulling them on, still a bit awkward in this body. Silver thread ran up the seams and spanned the cloth in obscure patterns; Geraad could not make heads or tails of them. “With luck, the count will be moderate, but what is it that the Light priests say? Purification through sacrifice.”
Geraad grimaced, but knew he couldn't dissuade anyone. They'd been set in their roles since long before he arrived. All he could do now was—
Pressure touched his mind from the outside: strong emotions. Not an attack, just a crowd-feeling.
He looked back to see wolves approaching the warded entry, and wolf-people dressed in furs and skins. “Ah...master?” he said. “We have visitors...”
The necromancer looked up from tying on a pair of bracers and made a sound of annoyance. Then he moved toward the entry to meet them, calling out, “Hail to the pack! I assume you know me.”
“Firebird,” said the wolf-woman in the lead. She was narrowly-built and furred in all the places her garments did not cover, including cheeks and brow, but her lips were bright red. It took Geraad a moment to connect that with the thickness in her voice and realize it was blood.
“The Guardian has harmed us,” she rasped. “Harmed Ninke Raunagi. We ache, we bleed. We find no relief when we shift. My pack is fearful. We would not approach you so boldly, but we cannot hunt like this. We hunger, and the cubs...even they are injured. You must do something, Firebird.”
Enkhaelen was silent a moment, but Geraad saw his hand clench on the door-frame. Then he snarled, “What in pike's name does that boy think he's doing?”
The wolf-woman recoiled from his ire, then further as he stepped out among the gathering pack. Moving into the entry, Geraad saw that all the wolves and humanoids and terrifying bipedal hybrids had the same bloody mouths, the same unevenly-heaving flanks. Enkhaelen took a long look around at the crowd, then a closer look at the wolf-woman, who averted her eyes respectfully.
“This... I can't fix this right now,” said the necromancer, strain and anger clear in his voice. “Flaming pikes, I can't believe he's made things worse. You'll have to wait for the next one.”
“The next what?” said the wolf-woman.
“The next— Time. I promise you, the Ravager will get this fixed. You'll have to abide for a few days more, but then...”
He trailed off uncomfortably. All around, the skinchangers grumbled and shifted on their paws, and Geraad edged back slightly from the door.
“You make us wait for you so long,” said the woman, “and now that we are hurt, we must wait more?”
“Truly, I apologize, but I can't sabotage my work for sympathy. Blame me—blame us, the Guardian and I—but we have our greater tasks.”
The wolf-woman growled low in her throat and backed off, her packmates assembling around her. Geraad grimaced at the hostility emanating from them, but after a moment she jerked her head and started away, the pack wheeling in her wake.
“We shall wait,” she said over her shoulder, “but not long.”
Enkhaelen watched after them until his hands managed to uncurl from their fists.
He came back through the door then, Geraad stepping aside, and said, “Anything else I missed while I was gone?” His voice was tight and hard, his movements curt as he started slapping jewelry on.
Geraad started to shake his head, then remembered the elemental. “Ah... You had a visitor a few days ago, from the 'Houses under the hill'. A copper person. It wanted to know where you were and what you were doing, and I thought, since you married one...“
The necromancer went very still. Without turning, he said, “What did you tell it?”
The chill in his voice sent a spasm of fear through Geraad. His memory snapped to that encounter, but he couldn't see anything amiss—any more so than talking to a living piece of metal should be. “I said...I thought you had something planned for Midwinter, at the Palace, but that I didn't know anything else. It seemed satisfied. Was that...bad?”
For a long moment, Enkhaelen neither moved nor spoke—a black-garbed statue. Then he shook his head slowly. “It shouldn't h
urt. Hopefully. In the future though, Iskaen, please realize that marrying someone does not put a person on good terms with all their kin.”
“You're not allied with the Muriae?”
“They stole my child. No, I am not.”
“I— I thought—“
Enkhaelen cut him off with a gesture. “It will be fine.” But his anger had not abated; as he turned, a white garment in one hand and the prisms in the other, his pale gaze passed over Geraad like he was so much furniture. It stung.
“Enwick, Wydma, pilgrim's gear,” he said, gesturing to the leftover bundles crammed in a corner. The metastatics went for them, and Enkhaelen moved to the portal-frame again.
“What about me?” said Geraad.
“You're not coming.”
“You said I had a choice.”
“Not anymore.”
“I— I'm sorry. If I did wrong, I didn't mean to. I swear—“
“You're not a fighter. Take these books—take anything in here,” said Enkhaelen, gesturing blindly at the room, “and run away. You've done your part and now you're free. Do you understand?”
Geraad stared at his back, gape-mouthed. He'd struggled with this decision endlessly: stay or go? And always something had kept him at the necromancer's heels. Indebtedness, fear, curiosity, respect—and now a sense of hope, that Enkhaelen knew something or would do something to free them from the Empire's cage. To be cast out at this point...
“I want to help,” he said.
“You can't.”
The portal opened. A white span stretched out from it, bordered by the dark slashes of trees: the Imperial Road. Enkhaelen handed a prism each to Tarren and Wydma—who had pulled their whites on over their enchanted robes—and crammed the third in his pocket. Then, with great reluctance, he shook out the white garment and shrugged it on. It was an outer-robe embroidered in the priestly style, heavy threads picking out the figure of the Imperial Phoenix in the same pallor as the cloth. Glints of silver showed through here and there.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 91
