If he looked up now, a superstitious part of him knew that he would see his mother's shadow.
Not the one that came to him in the Dark; even after everything, he refused to believe that was her. Not the one that had been in his flying dream either, though of all of them that was the one he wished he'd see. No. In this place, among these cell-like capsules, he felt like he had in the doorway of the women's barrack, watching her figure twist on the rope beneath the rafters.
It was the same, and had always been so. The quarry, the house in Fellen, the Crimson camp, and here: inseparable, four links in a chain that bound the whole of the Empire. That had bound him, first in guilt and now in vengeance, to this treacherous faith and these terrifying people. His mind hadn't changed; he still couldn't blame the Imperial citizens. He doubted they knew any more than he had.
But their masters, oh...
Enkhaelen might not be guilty of what he had originally been told, but he had much to answer for—and Cob did not intend to ask. If he had rationalizations for his horrors, he could take them to his grave.
They all could. The Emperor, the Generals, and—
“Das? What's wrong?”
He looked up at Fiora's question to see Dasira hustling toward them. “We need to flee,” she barked. “Get back down into the swamp.”
“Pikes, you got spotted?”
“More than that. It's the prince. We've probably been tracked.”
Cob's jaw set tight. He remembered seeing that man amid the shattered remains of the War Gate, while Darilan forced him down behind the spars of a fallen watchtower. Resplendent in his red and gold, he'd presided over Cob's entire time in the Crimson, from Jernizan to Savinnor to Bahlaer to Fellen—the pure embodiment of Imperial glory. Crimson General and Crown Prince, the heir to the Throne.
“I'll face him,” he said, rising.
Dasira shot him a horrified look. “No, we need to go.”
Ignoring her, he stepped forward, his antlers crackling into place. The reformed staff in his hand did not feel as powerful as the tectonic lever, but it was more alive, more malleable; perhaps he could use it more wisely. Ahead, pale shapes moved among the buildings, drawing closer.
A hand gripped his arm and he jerked away automatically, annoyed. Dasira eyed him. “You can't fight the prince,” she said.
“You don't think I'll win?” He frowned. “Or is this personal? You were close...”
She cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Not anymore, this is just bad timing. If you two want to fight after we kill Enkhaelen, fine, but for now— Hoi!“
He strode by, trusting in his long legs to keep him out of her reach. The tension in his chest felt tight enough to burst, and he needed someone to hit. Someone who deserved it. As the Imperial entourage emerged from among the fibrous buildings, he saw the same intention gleaming in the prince's hard eyes.
No red-and-gold platemail clad him this time; he wore the stark white armor of the White Flames, though not the featureless helm. His face was pale enough to match his garb, long hair bleached almost the same—had it always been that way? Cob didn't think so. In his hand was a wavy blade of dark reddish glass, the same color as the Hlacaasteia spire.
“You! Guardian!” the prince barked as the distance between them narrowed. “Lay your weapon down immediately!”
Black bark and ice crawled up Cob's arms, more slowly than they would within the swamp but aided by the elements of the staff. Inside him, the Guardian quailed at the sight of the sword, and he remembered Vina and her opposite Kirhuua on the Wrecking Shore, the Ravager being blasted from its vessel by a similar blade.
“Don't worry. You're not gettin' away from me,” he mumbled.
He could sense the others behind him—Fiora hefting the silver sword, Dasira with her dagger, Arik limping determinedly. Only a few White Flames trailed the prince, which was a relief. They could handle this.
“I warn you, surrender now or be taken!” the prince roared. His grip on the red blade looked more like one for a scythe; in fact, as he neared, Cob realized it wasn't sword-shaped at all, but long and flat and filigreed in a way that shifted from instant to instant.
Piking wraith-work, he thought, then waded in.
There was no circling, no moment to take each other's measure. The prince came on blade-first and Cob met him likewise, and when their weapons clashed, sparks sprayed from the blade in red and black and violet, stinging Cob like fiery needles.
But that was all. Though the very air felt scorched by the blade's current, it was no different from the magic he'd faced before—and hardly as dangerous as Enkhaelen. In his hands, the staff compensated for it, the water conducting, the wood and stone insulating. Red lightning jumped from it to his armor and from the armor to the road without effect. He knew he couldn't take a strike on bare skin, but with luck, it wouldn't matter.
To his credit, the prince did not falter. From the initial clash, he moved inward, swinging the near end at Cob's face like a hilt-bash while forcing a plated boot between his hooves. Cob slid one hoof back and rooted it in the white plateau, and for a moment they matched strength and leverage from a hand's-breadth apart. The prince's eyes flickered between amber and hazel, his face warping as he snarled—sometimes flesh and sometimes chitin, his teeth serrated.
Then Cob ducked his head and lunged forward, driving his skull into a jaw that split wide. His antlers cut against plated scalp as the prince reeled back, cursing incoherently. As Cob moved to pursue, he saw the finger-like sides of the prince's chin lace together again—saw his bug-like true eyes, the illusion blown—and hatred came down over him like a black curtain.
They engaged again at full force, sparks and bark flying. Cob's gauntlets melded with the staff to keep it secure, water allowing for fluidity of movement beneath the protective crust; it was less like holding a weapon than like suddenly gaining new joints, longer limbs. A helm of black ice crawled over his face in response to the sparks, locking out the world. He felt oddly serene like this. Capable, even masterful.
But the prince was no novice. The glassy blade morphed constantly in his hands, presenting a cutting edge at one moment and a flat shield at the next, or a field of spikes or hooks or finger-catching holes. He used his weight and plated boots to great effect—kicking Cob's feet out of root, pushing, hammering with knees and hard heels. He came in low too, so Cob couldn't catch him with the antlers again.
So he could force Cob's staff back against his chest, then slip the blade between his legs and slice up.
The glassy edge shaved a layer of stone off Cob's inner thigh and sent lightning into his groin and gut. He managed to push off and stumble back before it could cut flesh, but in the wake of the pain came a horrid numbness, like the aftermath of a burn. Gritting his teeth, he positioned the staff like a spear and lunged for the prince's throat, only to be forced back and aside as the blade lashed toward his own neck.
The prince took advantage of it, lurching forward roughly only to body-slam Cob sideways when he fell for the feint. This time Cob was the one to go low, taking a knee on impact and then rising and shoving up with the staff held horizontal, trying to lift the prince off his feet enough to throw him down. It almost worked; he got the prince up on his toes and was twisting for the throw when the blade suddenly slipped from the staff's clinch.
The edge hit him in the jaw.
He flung himself backward, but the red was already sweeping up—peeling off the faceplate and one nostril and filling his eye with hot lightning before it carved a path through his brow and severed an antler. Blood rained down that side of his face. He staggered back, off-balance, half-blinded and stunned.
“Untrained whelp,” said the prince, not advancing. His voice was low and controlled, and though his faceted gaze burned with anger, he waited as Cob pawed the blood from his eye and blinked against the blazing afterimage. “I can't believe one slave and one spirit could cause this much trouble.”
“Pike you,” rasped Cob. Already the Gua
rdian's mending itched across his nose and chin and brow, but it couldn't erase the fact that he'd nearly died. Could still die, without ever facing Enkhaelen.
“And for what?” the prince continued. “What is it that you want? To be sacrificed here, like we'd planned for you?”
“I'm here for Enkhaelen. For the Seals.”
“The what?”
Cob opened his mouth but had no words. Around him, the others fought in flickers and curses; he couldn't stand around and talk. Surely the prince was baiting him.
But that pale face had gone thunderous, without subterfuge. “Explain,” he demanded.
To keep from thinking, Cob rushed him. The prince had lowered his blade slightly during his wait, and Cob angled the staff to catch and keep it down, his remaining antler to gouge for an eye. But with head bowed, he couldn't react fast; the end of the blade dipped as he came in, and he managed to connect with it—then the prince's free hand clamped on his antler and twisted.
His chin went sideways. The other white gauntlet rose to grab it. He heard the wraith-blade hit the ground and tried to bring his staff to bear, but the prince stepped in too close—almost nose to nose, his grip like iron. The vertebrae in Cob's neck creaked under pressure.
“Explain,” the prince snarled.
Cob broke his grip on the staff to grapple at the gauntlets ineffectually. For all that the Guardian had urged his growth and given him strength, the prince was taller, broader—filled-out, and with the density of muscle that came from hauling around such heavy armor. With this leverage, he could take Cob's head off with ease.
“The Seals,” Cob hissed finally, “the pikin' things that close the world to Outsiders like your father.”
The prince's face clenched, and Cob braced for the snap but found himself shoved back instead, stumbling. Hooking one foot under the glassy blade, the prince hoisted it to his hand without bending, then bellowed, “Disengage!”
As one, the White Flames leapt back from their opponents.
Cob glanced around swiftly to find his friends still standing, if battered. Fiora was wiping sweat from her face with her sleeve, Dasira rolling her blade nervously in her palm; Arik had dropped to his haunches, spitting white stuff. All of them had shreds of the Palace fibers on them, but it seemed the White Flames had been fighting to subdue.
“Keep talking,” said the prince.
Confused now, Cob wiped his bloody cheek with the back of a bark-clad hand. The staff lay at the prince's feet, too close to lunge for, but when the prince noticed him eyeing it, he kicked it into the neutral space between them. In the absence of conflict, his illusion seemed to be reinstating itself: the long spines that crested his scalp softened slowly into hair, the stitchwork of moving parts fading from his jaw and cheek.
Cautiously, Cob fetched the staff, then retreated. “Figured you knew this stuff.”
“I know what my father is, but I have not heard of these 'Seals'.”
“They were placed fourteen hundred years ago to kick him out. Enkhaelen reopened 'em four hundred ago. You never heard of the Great War of Empires?”
“Of course I have,” said the prince curtly. “But... You believe my father was involved?”
Fiora, moving up to flank Cob, said, “Know, not believe. But it's not exactly common knowledge.”
Watching conflict cross the prince's face, Cob realized for the first time that he'd been privileged to have the Guardian's memories. Despite all that they'd obscured from him, they hadn't lied, and through their eyes he'd seen more of history than any scholar. Starting from ignorance had made Cob believe everyone knew more than him, but now that wasn't true.
The prince shook his head, then focused on Dasira, who blanched and quickly sheathed the seething blade. “Vedaceirra,” he said in a tight voice. “You knew?”
“I— No,” she said. “Kel, I had no idea until recently.”
“Then why did you leave me?”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“She was assigned to me,” said Cob, drawing the prince's eye back to him. “We became close, all right? Things happened.”
“Is that why she's a woman now?”
“You shut your piking mouth, Kel!” Dasira took a step forward, hand still on her blade's hilt. “It was never like that with us, so don't pretend you're jealous. I left because I couldn't handle Enkhaelen's shit anymore, or the plans we made for Cob. The me you knew was an employee, not a friend, because that's all I could be.”
“You could have brought your concerns to me.”
Dasira barked a laugh. “What would that accomplish? No one listens to you: not your father, not the Field Marshal, not Enkhaelen. How long have you spent trying to reform the Crimson Army, only to have them spit in your face whenever you—“
“He reassigned me.”
“What?”
“He gave Rackmar the Crimson.”
“Festering shit, Kel, I'm sorry.”
“You should be. It's your fault, you and this boy and—“
“Ours? It's your father's and Enkhaelen's. They're the ones playing us all for fools. And it was your choice to ignore your father's and Rackmar's commands. I never told you how to lead. You can't blame me when your efforts to go your own way get you dragged back in chains.”
“I had to change it! You weren't there when I took it over. It was worse than the Gold—“
“Uh, guys?”
“—just a horde of rapacious, expendable madmen even Rackmar wouldn't touch—“
“Um, hoi...”
“—and I had to rework the entire command structure, root out all my 'advisors'—“
“Hoi!” shouted Fiora, cutting through the prince's tirade. “We've got company!”
All eyes snapped to her, and she pointed vigorously past the prince to where new figures moved among the strange buildings: more White Flames and mages—a veritable tide of them—led by a bulky figure in vestments as well as armor.
“Rackmar,” the prince said like a curse. He turned a torn look to Cob and his friends, then jerked his hand in a shooing motion. “Go. We'll finish this later.”
“Um,” said Fiora with markedly less confidence, and Cob followed her gaze to find more White Flames coming up the vine-paths that bulwarked the village platform. “I think later is now.”
The prince and Dasira traded glances. Cob couldn't read them, and that unnerved him; he'd always been able to read Darilan's moods, to catch his gist by the slightest sidelong glance. It was like these two had switched to their own language, barring him out. As they turned to face the approaching crowd, he felt a twinge in his heart—the realization that he wasn't the whole of her world, and that he missed it.
“Well now, this is an interesting collection,” boomed a jovial voice. “I wonder what our most holy Emperor would think.”
“Field Marshal,” said the prince. “As you can see, these are my prisoners.”
“Are they?” The voice belonged to the man in the lead: grizzled and heavyset, his shoulders broad enough beneath his armor to suggest ogre or bear-blood. A white grin flashed out from the dark forest of his beard, and his gaze roved over Cob and the others before resting on Dasira and her black dagger-hilt. “I see you've retrieved some of our missing assets.”
“Yes,” said the prince. The red glass blade shivered in his hands; even from behind, Cob could see the tension in him. The White Flames that had accompanied him were moving to stand with the new arrivals, their loyalties plain.
“I suppose you'd like to march them off to your father,” said the Field Marshal. His smile and tone made him seem amused, but his eyes were the coldest Cob had ever seen.
The prince nodded sharply. “That is what we'd planned, correct?” Though Cob couldn't see his face, the tightness of his voice and stance made it obvious that he expected a fight no matter how this discussion went.
Raising a brow, the Field Marshal mused, “Is it?”
Then he swept a hand toward the White Flames, who part
ed to allow figures from deeper within the entourage to step forth. Many were in white, but some wore plain-clothes, and one was in black, one in orange...
Cob's mind locked up.
Dimly he knew he should have expected this. He'd seen the visions in the arrowhead—the conversions. But he'd never imagined it would be like this. One by one, they arrayed themselves at the Field Marshal's command: Altae Horrum, his horrid old tent-mate; Maevor, looking wearier than he'd ever been in the slave-camp; Weshker, bruised and subdued. Vriene Damiel, mouth fixed in a motherly smile but eyes blank; Ammala Cray, inhumanly beautified by her conversion but still recognizable in her pride and anger; Nana Cray, barely a husk; and Lark. Poor nearly-escaped Lark.
And there were more. People he recognized only dimly or by their clothes: the carter who had driven him from Cantorin, the caravan-woman who had brought him dinner. Other caravaners, including children; foothill townsfolk in their wolf-wool; the elderly pilgrims—even Yendrah and her nephew. Behind them were others he didn't recognize: Illanites and Amands, Riddish and Wynds, from all the places he had been.
“Did you think you were invisible?” said the Field Marshal, black-ice gaze fixed now on him. “Gallivanting through our empire with your band of renegades and fools? We have eyes everywhere, Guardian. —Heh, 'Guardian', such a name for an entity that can barely save itself. See how well you've guarded these folk?” He twitched a finger, and the crowd jerked as one, mouths wrenching open to emit a wild chorus of screams.
Brine rose thick in the back of Cob's throat. His heart hammered on the inside of his ribs, every nerve screaming for him to fling himself at the Field Marshal—or run. But there were enough mages there to slow him down, and under his hooves he felt a subtle writhe in the white flooring. If it rose against him too, he would find himself in a cocoon just like Enkhaelen's.
“What d'you want?” he growled.
The Field Marshal smiled. “I want you to kneel at my feet so that I might sever your head from your neck. Whatever that little shit intends for you, I won't let him do it. He has undermined me for the last time.”
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 93
