What came next was a blind fury of claws and tendrils and spears, torn helms and flicking tail. Despite the Guardian's backing, he wasn't Cob—a sturdy pummeler who could take a pummeling himself. He was an opportunist and a sneak. Blades nicked his sides as he bit for wrists, throats, faces, and dug his claws into bellies and groins; spears rebounded from the floor as he dropped, scrambled, and surged up elsewhere, leaving severed hamstrings in his wake.
Few of his hits landed. There were too many enemies on him, their armor too adaptive, and beyond their swarming forms he saw Rackmar stumbling toward the dais and the shelter of his god. The anger that had propelled him this far wavered at the thought of chasing him there.
No. I will never again be a coward.
He had just started to withdraw, thinking to take some distance then spring past his White Flame foes, when the detonations began.
*****
In halls, in chambers, on balconies, among the crowd—everywhere a fused blade had been planted—the mismatched crystals fumed and sparked. In the hands of their metastatic wielders, they had drawn all the power they could contain, and still the sigils engraved upon them demanded more.
But the joins were bad, the energies unbalanced. Green crystal from the wraith-spire Syllastria resonated in opposition to pink from Anlirindallora, blue from Tantaelastarr, orange from Noravar, gold from Lassaltir. More and more power strained within the blades, fighting against the fusion points, until one join slipped and took the others with it in a catastrophic cascade.
The explosions tore through walls, floors, bystanders and the bodies of their wielders. They produced no shrapnel—the strands of the Palace as harmless as spider-silk when severed—but spread gore in all directions.
Black gore, which, after a moment's paralysis, began to spread itself.
*****
A blast scythed down a circle of pilgrims to Geraad's right and flung a White Flame against him, nearly knocking them both down. The soldier scrabbled at him fitfully then sagged, and Geraad saw the festering holes burned into his back.
Beyond, pilgrims in spattered garments writhed at the edges of the riven floor. The blast had created a black-rimmed pit four feet deep, twelve wide—and growing, streaks of corrosion spreading out in all directions. A priest, eyes ablaze, pressed his hands to the floor as if trying to pray the advance to a stop, but the dark threads burrowed into his arms like worms.
Then came another blast, and another, and another. A balcony disintegrated into black-and-white smithereens; a hole gaped suddenly in a far wall, revealing a parallel hall; something behind him detonated to drop a rain of white threads and dark flecks over the crowd.
The pilgrims, already frantic, descended into pure panic.
Even with his empathy muted, the intensity of the crowd's emotions made Geraad's head swim. He had to get away, but there was nowhere to go. Tarren and Wydma had abandoned him for their task, and the Crown Prince's spiky prison blocked the way ahead; to his left and right were the seething seas of people. Behind was—
He turned. Through the screen of fleeing bodies, a clear space beckoned: the place where Enkhaelen had fallen. Some instinct kept even the most unhinged pilgrims from nearing the corpse.
Geraad felt it too—an atavistic quake in the spine, a weakness in the knees—but his head was worse. The more people battered against him, the more they punctured his mental barriers with their fear. He couldn't waste a moment to ward himself.
Or to think.
Shoulder-first, he plunged into the flow, stumbling sideways until he broke through the main mass and entered the clearing. It wasn't big; three steps took him nearly to the body, which lay with arms outspread as it had fallen.
Not much remained. Skin and muscle had sloughed off in ashen flakes, baring bones that crumbled like soft charcoal. Already the front of the skull had fallen in, the cavity beyond it full of smouldering teeth and black goo. Even the layers of robe were rotting away.
But not their embroidery. As his mind stabilized, Geraad saw the silver gibberish-runes twist free from the cadaver's back, then slot like clockwork into those of the robe below. Deep blue energy kindled between them, then reached out spidery electric limbs to pull the sigils of the outer robe into alignment. At the next cerulean pulse, the scattered teeth luminesced, cracked, and released crystal-grains that tumbled inward; the bones jerked, then crumbled to expose enchanted rods and pins, which fell into place among the interlocked circles as if drawn by wires.
Geraad's eyes widened as the combined sigils became clear. He knew little about the design and construction of the great archaic battle-magics, but he recognized a demolition array when he saw one.
As the last pin locked in, the collected energy flared bright, then stamped itself onto the floor below. Blue shapes and sigils unfurled from it in a rapidly-expanding ring. Where they passed, the radiant floor dimmed, and in moments Geraad was trapped within their radius, the air suddenly freezing from the drag of the colossal enchantment.
He tried to step back, but the chill bit at his muscles and stole the breath from his lungs. Beyond him, the sigils kept propagating outward with no regard for those they engulfed. Frost-touched pilgrims staggered, coughing dryly; a priest dropped to one knee, blazing eyes extinguished. Beneath his feet, the floor cracked like bad ice.
His legs unhinged. The cold stole the energy from his wards and projections, breaking the mirage, but he couldn't look up to see the effect; his head was too heavy, his eyelids like lead. Numbness stole across his face, his fingers, and crawled inward.
I'm going to die here. Drained to power this spell.
Something flared on his belt, warm against the blue light. He reached a nerveless hand to touch it and gasped as hot energy surged into him, snapping his mind from its fog and sending pins-and-needles through his limbs. Staggering upright, he saw that the array had reached its limit at the side walls and now covered about half of the chamber, its territory littered with the fallen. Gaps existed at both ends, encompassing the throne and the main doors.
He looked down at his lifeline: the knife Enkhaelen had given him, the amber in its hilt sparking fitfully. All around, the pulse of the blue sigils quickened, threatening to steal away what strength he had regained.
Terrified, he pushed himself into a staggering run.
It wouldn't be enough. Even with the infusion, he had started from the center of the circle, and it pulled at him like gravity. His slippers slid on the smooth floor, exertion-sweat freezing on his skin, breath a white mist. More than once he tumbled, catching himself only barely; should he go down further than one knee, he knew he was done.
No. No, I refuse.
Beneath him, the speeding pulse became a constant. He caught himself again and felt frost sting his palm. Lurching up, he put all his will into his legs, blocking out the pain and fear. Nothing mattered but escape.
The light of the white floor died in a wave that passed below him and out beyond the borders of the array. At the same time, something yanked at his spine, dragging him backward. Gritting his teeth, he snapped out a ward with what little free energy he had. Just a few more steps, and—
A huge bright hand of force slapped him off his feet.
He flew past the edge of the array and slammed into the retreating pilgrims, ward shattering as he tumbled past the first few to land sprawled on someone's legs. His ears rang, eyes swarming with afterimages, but mentalist discipline kept him together as he struggled to rise on limbs that felt like bags of water.
A moment later he realized that it wasn't him quivering uncontrollably, but the floor.
It subsided suddenly under his feet, dropping him flat. Bodies slid by, unconscious or stunned; others scrambled to get away but their movements only increased the vibration. He tried to dig his toes into the sagging floor, but it shredded beneath them; his knife stuck in the white material only to tear it up. Options rattled through his head: Wards underfoot! Some kind of arcane grapple! But he was down to his dregs, too s
haken to act.
Then a hand hooked under his arm and pulled, and he struggled to follow, fingers tearing away layers of papery fiber until finally he found a surface he could grip. His savior slid him a few more feet, then released, and he glanced up in time to see Tarren's bloated face turning away.
Ahead, pilgrims and soldiers lay felled, groaning or clutching the ground as it continued its slow roll. Parts of the walls had lost their light and others hosted patches of horrid dark growth, but they were nothing compared to the sight behind him.
Where Enkhaelen's corpse had been, there was only air. A gaping hole cut the throne room in two, long fronds of white fiber dangling from its edges to dredge through the soupy mess below. The structures down there—pillars, platforms and walls full of honeycomb cells—had been ruptured by the blast, and now floated in chunks or spilled their contents into the slurry of pulped bodies and translucent gel. Further out, Geraad glimpsed channels and cul-de-sac hives where surviving converts struggled feebly from their confines, soft and pale as larvae.
Revulsion clutched him. How many of those bodies belonged to the pilgrims he'd seen go below? How far did the hives reach? Into the rest of the Palace? The city? The shadowless circle?
Struggling up, he looked toward the throne. The surviving pilgrims had been pushed toward the foot of it and were struggling to get away. Above, the Emperor stood as if unable to comprehend what he was seeing, but then raised a hand that flooded rapidly with clear white radiance. Directing it toward the dark spot nearest him, he unleashed a torrent of searing light that burned straight through the pilgrims in the way.
Geraad shielded his eyes, too dazzled to see further. His heart beat like a moth against his ribs, and part of him—the greater part—wanted to follow the shrieking crowd straight out the doors. But there were others moving against the current, and when he sent out psychic feelers, he recognized them: Tarren and Wydma, plus two of the women who had come with the prince.
The Emperor's mentalists had noticed them too.
He couldn't tell where the metastatics were physically, but he had touched their minds before, making it easy to reestablish the links and block the mentalists out. The women were more difficult, and as he fumbled at them, one of the Imperial mentalists slid below his guard to hit him directly.
With his emotions locked down and his thoughts just a thin stream, the only target left was perception. Geraad's stomach lurched as the world spun, righted, then tilted again, kaleidoscope colors bursting from nowhere. Planting his feet squarely, he closed his eyes and forced his sight to blank; while it couldn't keep the enemy's illusions at bay, at least he would know they weren't real.
His links remained, moving steadily through the firework-flares. Nervous anticipation resonated from them, then a spark of love and regret—
Despite the danger, he had to look. The illusion painted strong watercolors over Tarren as he charged up the dais, fused crystal blade in hand. Above stood the burning figure of the Emperor, so radiant it was impossible to make out his features. If there had ever been a time for a psychic attack, it was now.
But the Emperor had no mind to strike.
Geraad opened his mouth to cry out, but it was far too late. A beam of sunlight lanced through Tarren's chest, then widened in an incinerating wash. It did not stagger him—it had no force—and for a few steps he continued climbing, his robe catching fire around him.
Closer to the wall, Wydma darted up and past the Lord Chancellor without incident.
Tarren took another step, then raised his arm to interpose the crystal dagger between himself and the beam. Shafts of blue and pink and gold scattered out to dance through the throne room, but then his hand caught fire, the flesh boiling off it in a black stream, and—
Breaking the link, Geraad focused on Wydma. She was still going: now on the arm of the Empress's lesser throne, now leaping past her to the greater throne, now reaching up to stab her blade above its crest...
As it went in, the Emperor's beam punctured her side.
She tried to hang there. He couldn't bear to witness it but couldn't tear his eyes away as the light cut up through her ribs then took her arm off at the shoulder, dropping her heavily at the Empress's feet. Another bright streak vaporized her head.
The breath wheezed in his lungs. He couldn't move, couldn't think, completely fixated on that scintillating blade. Peripherally he saw the Emperor gesturing at it, his shining face contorted as if shouting, and on the other side of the Empress's seat he glimpsed the Lord Chancellor's disinterested response.
The Emperor's gestures grew fevered. The Lord Chancellor shook his head.
The crystal blade sparked.
Then it blew, tearing chunks from the tops of both thrones and throwing the Empress down the steps. The Lord Chancellor raised his arms defensively; the Emperor never moved.
In the wall, a pair of feet came visible through the haze of torn fibers. They jerked, then kicked vigorously, and Geraad's eyes cleared as all the mentalists' attention turned there.
He thought to strike back at them, but the display on the dais wasn't done. In his first move of the night, the Lord Chancellor stepped up to the top level, straight into the Emperor's beam. It burned through his ceremonial robe only to scatter beneath his flesh, glints and flares shining out as if through painted glass. With a flex of his shoulders, the Lord Chancellor unfurled into a wraith-thing of prismatic spines and prehensile wings, and reached up to grab the exposed feet.
The Emperor made a pulling gesture, and the remains of the Empress's throne lurched forward to close like a hand upon the Lord Chancellor—unraveling a huge section of wall in the process. Even more came loose when the wings snapped out like shears to free themselves. More tendrils lashed at it, but the narrow core within the slicing wings worked the prisoner out from the wall with indifference, until finally it found a hip and yanked—
A gout of light and heat surged out, brighter by magnitudes than the Emperor's beam. Geraad covered his face with his arms, feeling his scalp singe and his hair crackle. Even the Lord Chancellor made a fluting sound of alarm.
Then it dimmed, and he squinted out to see Enkhaelen curled up on the throne, still tethered to the wall by great spiderweb-bonds, with the Emperor standing before him like a guard. A cord of brilliance ran from the necromancer's chest to the Emperor's back, infusing him with a light too bright to look at. Two fierce blasts from his palm drove the Lord Chancellor into the air, wings folding forward to protect its core.
Enkhaelen was trying to cover the source, his bones visible like shadows through his back-lit skin. Something was wrong with his hands, and amid the fibers that coated him like a caul, there were dark strands: his hair, corded into the Palace's substance by centuries of growth.
It was a shock. Dimly Geraad realized he'd expected the necromancer to step free with a smirk and a spell—to banish this chaos and erase those deaths. The bony prisoner on the throne was a far cry from the man he'd followed.
But one thing was clear.
He needs me.
As the Emperor's gaze turned elsewhere, he forced himself forward.
*****
Though Ammala Cray wanted nothing more than to attack the bastards who had harmed her children, she had agreed to help Lady Annia and would not renege on it. The lady's locust-song cut through the crowd, peeling pilgrims from their path to let them pass through even the pinch-points, and despite her distaste, Ammala had to admit it was impressive.
She didn't know how to do it herself, and fervently hoped she'd never have to learn. Even if there was no way to reclaim her original form, she had no interest in exploiting this one for any longer than it took to find her daughters.
Ahead loomed the dais, broken and stained. She hadn't seen what damaged it, but the sunburst that had followed had touched her peripherally, sending a shiver of rapture through her like the dream-time in the hive. Though a fainter light played up there now, it had the same ecstatic pull, its form surrounded by a corona
of colors she could neither name nor describe. Even when she turned her head away, it dragged at her eyes like a compulsion.
Fortunately, her daughter Izelina's obstinance had come from her.
It almost made her laugh. As a child, she'd gotten into as much trouble with her mother as that girl had with her, and for the same reasons. Now, with her transformation threatening to undermine her will, she felt herself falling back on that younger self. The one who said, No, no, never, even when something was done in her best interest.
If Lady Annia felt the same pull, she couldn't tell. The woman's gaze was fixed on the dais steps, and as the crowd finally parted, Ammala saw the Empress sprawled there like a discarded doll. Though there were Imperial servitors near her—soldiers, mages, pilgrims—no one had moved to her aid.
With a sound of dismay, Lady Annia strode forth. Ammala followed at her heels, struggling to keep her eyes down. The strange colors intensified the closer she came to the dais, and as she set foot on the first step she felt them burn into her. Skin tingling, eyes aching, she pursued the lady to the fallen Empress and stooped to take her arm.
The Empress recoiled with a wordless cry, the motion sharp enough to slide her down another step. “Mithara, hush,” said the lady, hooking an arm under her, and as she was levered up Ammala saw the pain and bewilderment in her eyes. Her pallid hair had come loose from its pins to hang in sheaves across her lined face; her diadem was gone, her finely embroidered dress twisted across her hips. Though Ammala estimated her at a well-kept sixty-five, her mien was that of a battered child.
A flare of light passed over their heads, making the Empress squeal. Ammala glanced up to see a great amalgamation of swirling crystal being flung backward, having apparently made a dive at the throne. Strange colors cloaked it too—not as strong as those of the Emperor but sharper, more focused. Painful to observe.
“Mithara, please cooperate,” said the lady. Ammala copied her grip, and though the Empress squirmed and wailed, it was no worse than managing her mother-in-law's fits. There was a reason Maegotha Cray had come to live with them rather than the families of her older sons: their wives hadn't been up to the job.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 104
