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

by H. Anthe Davis

  He crossed the portal, and Tarren and Wydma followed. Geraad moved as if to pursue, but Enkhaelen cast a look back at him that froze him in mid-step.

  “Go,” said the necromancer. “Reclaim your life.”

  Then he touched the portal membrane, and it popped.

  Left alone in the cluttered office, Geraad stared at the frame. Yes, he had options. There was the Silent Circle, and his patron Count Varen. There were his parents, still dwelling in Varence City, and his siblings scattered throughout Wyndon. There were his old familiar studies and all his new knowledge, his new connections. He could find Rian or maybe Cob, and learn about this peculiar phase of his life from the other side.

  And yet he couldn't make himself go. The bared silver frame beckoned to him, not with the many vistas it could show but with the place it had just been. And when he turned his gaze to the chamber, he did not see the crates and trunks that lined the walls, or the bookshelves and pieces of statuary.

  He saw the notebook and keyring Enkhaelen had left him, and beside them, the knife in its sheath.

  He held his hand out above them. A legacy, an inheritance. Strange millennia of history at his fingertips, and magic, wealth, wisdom...

  Or the war.

  Half a mark later, the portal opened once more, and Geraad Iskaen stepped through, knife in hand.

  Chapter 30 – Sentimental Scars

  The portal closed behind Dasira, leaving her ankle-deep in the swamp. At the edge of view, figures moved perpendicular to her through clumps of white grass and moss-covered rocks, but there were fewer than she expected. Two opposing fears rose: that Enkhaelen had dropped her in the wrong place, or that something bad had happened.

  The figures halted, heads turning in her direction, and she saw the spread of black antlers. That answered one question.

  She took a deep breath, then slogged toward them.

  “Dasira?” came Cob's voice. He sounded surprised. Not angry, not wary—but not happy either. The smile that had begun forming on her face dried up; she shouldn't have expected more, not after all that she had done. Still it hurt to see him with Fiora at his side, his face distant. Like their separation had been a lifetime ago.

  “Yeah,” she called out. “I'm fine, thanks for asking.”

  He flinched, and she cursed herself for her sourness. “Where have you been?” he said, starting toward her. “We thought you were lost in the Grey.”

  “I was. I found a wraith shard and pulled myself through.”

  “At Hlacaasteia?” said Fiora.

  Dasira frowned. “No, in a beacon along one of the north roads. Why?”

  “We... There was a situation,” said Cob, then hesitated, apparently at a loss. He still wore a pilgrim's robe, but it was so stained and tattered that it would never work on the White Road. “A lot has happened,” he finished weakly.

  “Like...?” She looked to Fiora, then at Arik, who stuck close to Cob's side in wolf-form, his muzzle flecked with blood. “What have you people been doing? Where's Lark, or Ilshenrir, or that goblin?”

  “Rian,” said Cob grimly, and her mouth went dry. “Like I said, there was a... Pikes, Das, I've screwed up.”

  “They're dead?”

  “Rian is. Ilshenrir might be. He gave himself up to his people. Lark left us at Finrarden, said she'd find her own way home. That's for the best, right? She's been hurt enough.”

  “Wait. Start from the beginning.”

  “Well...”

  As Cob talked about it—the Grey, the wraith spire, the metal elementals and the woman who'd wanted the sword—Dasira tried to keep her eyes off of Fiora. It wouldn't do to betray her anger. Perhaps the behavior of the metal elementals had an innocent explanation; perhaps the similarities between Fiora's rhetoric and the three women who had visited her in jail were simply coincidental.

  Then Cob said, “Fiora's pregnant.”

  Later, after Dasira had finished shouting at them, she turned to Fiora and said, “Not to disparage your faith but I agree with Cob. If it's at all possible to go back, you should.”

  “How many times have we argued this?” snapped the Trifolder. “We're too close, and there's no one else to wield the silver sword. It restricts the Guardian and hurts you, and Arik is too injured to be sword-swinging.”

  “The two of you can go back together.”

  “Seriously, shut up.”

  “I agree with Fiora,” said Cob, with reluctance. “This's never been about us. Anyway, the moment we stepped into the shadowless circle, we dug our graves. If the Palace is anythin' like the Thorn of Haaraka, it knows we're here, and it'll get us.”

  “It hasn't yet,” said Dasira, then sighed. “I'm sorry, that was contrary. You're right. It's not something you can easily escape. The Guardian's probably the only thing holding it off.”

  Fiora gestured toward the spindly trees. “I've seen movement at night. Flickers in the sky. We're definitely being watched, but as long as no one confronts us, we could still have a chance.”

  “If the plan still relies on stealth...”

  “My goddess has blessed me,” said the girl stiffly. “I can do my part. You remember Erestoia.”

  Dasira opened her mouth to cry hog-shit, or claim vindication, or condemn her as a secret cultist, but she couldn't decide which. The words tangled in her throat, emerging as a snarl that narrowed Cob's eyes and made Fiora's hand rise toward her sword-hilt.

  “You can't seriously expect that to work here,” she tried instead. “What god can intrude on the Risen Phoenix's domain? Don't they have rules against that?”

  “The Emperor's not a real god,” said Cob. “He's the Outsider.”

  “And his grip on this land constricts the Guardian's powers, right? Who's to say it won't do the same to the Trifold? Pikes, who's to say that either of you can use any power within the Palace?”

  Cob and Fiora looked at each other, stricken. Fiora was the first to rally. “The blessing has already been placed. Perhaps I will not be able to call upon my goddess for aid once inside, but surely it can't undo what has been done.”

  “I dunno about the Guardian,” said Cob. “When we were trapped in Erestoia, the best it could do was keep me alive. But I was heavily bound then, and I've learned some...tricks, in the time since. Worst case, the Guardian can flee.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It fled Haurah.” He smiled grimly. “I found her here, alive. It wasn't pleasant. Dunno how eaten-up by the Palace threads she was back then, but I don't think they can hold the Guardian—jus' block us off from the earth.”

  “And the three of you were just going to get back on the road and march into the Palace?”

  “Four of us now. Right?”

  Dasira grimaced and looked away, but couldn't refuse. If it was what Cob wanted, she'd see it through. “We'll need new robes.”

  “There's villages that branch off from the road. I was figurin' we could find one of those, grab whatever we need...”

  “Never thought I'd see you turn bandit.”

  Cob flushed darkly. “I don't want to, but we got no other option. And...I wanna see these villages. Haurah said she and her pack hunt in them. That there's 'breeders' and monstrous kids. If that's what the Empire's really been doin', all this time...” He looked down, and she saw the clench of his jaw.

  She could have said many things then, but she'd already explained enough. If he couldn't accept the truth without witnessing it, then so be it.

  “Let's go then,” she said. “There are villages everywhere, but they get denser closer to the city.”

  “You've seen them?”

  “One or two. I never spent much time here, and haven't been back in ages, but I imagine it's much the same. If not more so.”

  He didn't ask, just stared at her with those dark eyes, and she was struck again by how old he suddenly seemed. Like he'd aged decades in the course of days.

  “Look, we should get moving,” she told him. “Erevard is still on your trail. I managed
to get ahead of him, but he's a persistent bastard. It's just a matter of time.”

  “How did you find us?” said Fiora, narrow-eyed.

  Dasira feigned a smile and patted Serindas' hilt. “Same way he's tracking you. These blades can tell.”

  Fiora made a sound of distrust, but Cob just nodded. It was a lie, of course; akarriden blades were made for killing, not marking. That the rotblade had left a trace of itself in Cob's flesh was a result Dasira doubted its creators had anticipated.

  Still, it was better than telling them about Enkhaelen.

  They moved off through the mire, separate but linked. In this area, the trees were thicker, the hummocks smoother and flatter but still not trustworthy. Pallid moss draped from bent branches and coated earth and murk alike, making it difficult to tell how any step would fall. Dasira took care to avoid any patches of grass or fern, and warned the others likewise; they too were bleached white, and could well have been Palace threads.

  If they were, she wondered why they did not simply reach out and drag them all down. Perhaps, like the ones filling her abdomen, they were too distant or detached to be truly aware.

  Or perhaps they were biding their time.

  It took marks, but eventually the White Road came visible through the screen of trees. It was a good five yards higher than the swamp in this area, and made a formidable-looking wall. Keeping some distance, Cob veered north, the rest of the mud-spattered quartet following in silence.

  Dasira kept an eye on the road, and saw when it began to bend into a village offshoot. “Veer further,” she called softly, and Cob obeyed until they were walking nearly perpendicular to their former path. The village offshoot loomed higher and higher as they eased near, then abruptly subsided away into the mire like a tangle of roots.

  Halting, they squinted up at the highest point. The white material had spread out into something like a plateau, with strange growths rising past the canopy of trees; the root-falls themselves were structured like buttresses, with a few notched into stairs.

  “Paths for the villagers,” Dasira opined. “I don't like those big roots. They look like they could move.”

  “But any of it could move, right?” said Fiora.

  “Well, yes.”

  Cob started toward the nearest stair.

  “Hoi!” Fiora called after him. “Shouldn't we discuss what we're doing?”

  As if unhearing, he began to climb. Under the mud, his feet were bare, and Dasira experienced a lurch in her chest; all this time, he'd been leaving himself exposed to whatever tendrils lurked in the mire. Even if they hadn't detected him before, surely they would do so now...

  But nothing unraveled from the roots beneath his feet, and no alarm sounded on the plateau above. Nevertheless, Dasira hustled after him, climbing hand-over-foot to catch up while he made his way with the surety of a mountain goat.

  “Cob,” she snapped once she was close, “you need to put boots on. Or slippers, or anything. Thread to skin is how my kind do our work. This is too important to risk with idiocy.”

  He paused long enough to give her a cold look, and she wished she could retroactively bite her tongue. “Lost m'boots,” he said, then kept going.

  “Someone has to have something,” Dasira muttered, but followed.

  Soon they had all struggled up the ropy walkways to the plateau's edge. The last to arrive was Arik, bloody tongue hanging and claws clad in torn threads. For a long moment they just stared around at the peculiar structures, then Fiora said, “Where is everybody?”

  The village wasn't large, consisting of only a few dozen egg-shaped structures extruded from the plateau. Most were squat nubs suitable for a single person or perhaps a few in very close quarters, but the central six rose to three stories before flowering open at their peaks in coral-like protrusions. No doors or windows showed on any of them, nor any sign of individuality. As they stepped forward, their footfalls sent faint vibrations through the fibrous street.

  “Careful,” said Dasira. “I've never seen a village closed-up like this. Maybe it's the season; everyone's probably at the Palace.”

  Fiora gave her a doubting look. “Not everyone, surely...”

  “Why not?” She gestured to the structures. “Any time I've been here, these have all been open. No doors, just archways, everyone sort of lingering around. The Palace provides for its people in its own way. They don't have to do much beside...”

  She trailed off, not wanting to state it. Swamp hunts had been her most hated task, but not because tracking down interlopers was like looking for a blade of grass in a plainsland. The avid-eyed women who populated the chambers reminded her too much of her lagalaina sisters, and the pallid evasive children like fellow bodythieves...only worse. Because they hadn't been converted. They were born that way.

  And there had been soldiers 'visiting' every time.

  Breeders, indeed.

  “Well,” she said flatly, “it's much like the women's quarters in the Crimson. Only for the White Flame.”

  She saw Cob's face darken. He turned slowly, taking in the view, then said, “Let's go.”

  “We can't. Not if there's no one here to steal from. You need a robe, Cob.”

  “Cut your way into a house and get one.”

  “They're not houses.” She grimaced. “I've glimpsed the insides. They're all...downy, pillowy. The walls, floor, all of it. Nothing there but the occupants, so unless the occupants are sealed inside—“ Her heart lurched at the idea. “—Look, there's another way. Fiora, give me your robe and I'll go mug some passing pilgrims.”

  Fiora blinked, then started squirming from her robe. Cob, shaking his head, said, “I don't want you to hurt anyone.”

  “Right now, I don't care what you want.”

  Cob reddened and started to speak, but Fiora swatted him with the robe. “I hate to take her side, but I've told you the same blasted thing. It doesn't matter if they're villains or victims; once we've done what we came to do, they'll all be harmed. That's what happens when you bind yourself to a monster like the Emperor. You need to accept that!”

  He looked away, face clenched, and Dasira took the robe from Fiora with a raised brow. The Trifolder girl inclined her head sharply, expression just as firm as Cob's. For a moment, Dasira almost approved of her.

  Maybe the problem is that we're too much the same, she thought as she shrugged into the robe. Both bound to a psychotic version of our deity.

  If only she knew enough to expose the girl as a cult extremist. But maybe it didn't matter. They were here on the word of the Ravager, with the help of Enkhaelen and information provided by Geraad the mentalist, all in the hope that the Guardian could stand up to the Light. They could be making a terrible mistake.

  Wouldn't be the first time. Come on, Das, you've a job to do.

  “But seriously, Cob, at least wrap your feet,” she said, then started into the village.

  It wasn't a long walk, not with the spring of the white material beneath her feet, but it drained her nevertheless. Low winter light threw blue shadows from the egg-shaped buildings, adding a hint of chill to the generally tepid air; at the corners of her eyes, both walls and shadow sometimes shivered as if alive. It was in her mind, she knew; unlike the Palace, which filled her with angry tension, this place just felt haunted. She clenched her hand around Serindas' hilt for the dubious support of his presence.

  Soon the plateau narrowed and the structures thinned. She stepped out from among the last few with a sense of relief. The White Road was visible from the village's edge, pilgrims advancing along it like pieces on a game-board; with no cover between here and there, she felt a bit like a deer emerging from the woods.

  In the northern distance, the architectural foothills of Daecia City rose faintly, half-obscured by trees. There was a sense of greater whiteness beyond, towering up toward the sky, but it was hard to see from this vantage, as if draped in veils. How long had it been since she'd last walked this path and seen the Palace's public face? At least a
decade, and things changed so swiftly in this place.

  Swallowing her trepidation, she focused on the intersection with the road. The stream of pilgrims stretched endlessly in both directions; she wasn't sure of the day, but guessed that the Festival was already in progress. The portals within the city would be closed, forcing even a General to take the road.

  Don't want to end up mugging a ruengriin, she thought. Find a human, extend a few needles and 'help' them off the road once the dosage overpowers them...

  That would work. As the intersection came closer, she slid two fine strands out from under her fingernails, then urged her bracer to produce the obedience toxin. Even before the Crimson camp, when she'd been obligated to use it on Cob, it hadn't been her favorite option; after the Guardian learned to sweat it out, she hadn't bothered again. Now, though, it would work to allay suspicion.

  Her gaze flicked over the approaching pilgrims, lips curled slightly to help catch the scent of abominations. If she merged with the crowd at the south end of the intersection, she could pull a victim out at the north without it looking too odd...

  Something caught her eye from the north.

  She almost didn't look, too fixated on her task. But a little signal in her mind said red glass, which triggered an image and a fear, so she gave it a glance.

  And froze.

  The red glass protruded over the shoulder of a white-armored figure stalking in her direction, pilgrims flowing away to either side before him. A handful of White Flames jogged at his heels, but all she could see was his face.

  Crown Prince Kelturin.

  Her legs said run! but she dared not. Instead she adjusted the hood of her robe, hoping that perhaps he was looking for someone else; perhaps she could blend in. But his gaze swept across the village path then came to rest on her, in her muck-spattered robe, and even at this distance she saw the narrowing of his eyes.

  Piking shit, she thought.

  And bolted.

  *****

  Cob put all his attention into wrapping his feet with strips torn from his mangled robe. He'd seen enough of this place already. The sooner it was behind them, the better.