A tingle ran down his arm and through his hand, like an icy wire being pulled out from under the skin. The red droplet unfurled in the water, then the whole bowl turned silver as a polished mirror. It reflected nothing—not his hand, not the ceiling—but after a moment it appeared to darken, then blur into the dim outline of a face.
“Who is this?” said a woman’s voice in his head, strangely tinny and muzzed from sleep.
“Lieutenant Firkad Sarovy of the Second Lance of the Crimson Claw,” Sarovy said automatically, giving Voorkei a questioning glance. The mage looked amused but shrugged his bony shoulders and moved to prepare his own scry. “I am on a mission for the Crimson General, His Imperial Highness Kelturin Aradysson, and am reporting—“
“Right, right…just a moment, I’ll get him,” said the woman, smothering a yawn. The image had cleared slightly, showing her as young and brunette in the light that emanated from her scrying source; the room beyond was dark. As she disappeared from view, Sarovy reflected dully on the time. It was several marks past sunset, almost midnight.
A more familiar face swam into view, and Sarovy straightened in salute. In the scry, the Crimson General returned it, then passed his hand across the image. It rippled from within. “Do you have him?” he said without preamble. He was bare-shouldered, and Sarovy was surprised to see tattoos covering his skin like twisted pictograms. The teardrop pendant at the hollow of his throat gleamed in the reflected light.
“No, sir. Not yet. I apologize for contacting you so late—“
“It’s fine. Report.”
So Sarovy did. Every detail he could recall, every inference he had drawn—except for those about Trevere, who still sat across the table with his eyes locked on Sarovy, difficult to ignore. Within the scrying bowl, the Crimson General nodded and occasionally glanced aside or picked through parchments just below sight.
Finally, as Sarovy finished his low-voiced explanation of the Lord Governor’s oblique threats, the General sighed and waved him to a stop. “You are very thorough, Lieutenant,” he said. “I appreciate that. It seems I’ll have some work to do.”
“I apologize if I—“
“It’s fine. Very little of this is new.” The General pressed fingertips to his temples, his face wearied by more than the time, and Sarovy realized with a jolt that he was not as young as he appeared. In daylight, on the field in his blood-red armor, he had always seemed the pinnacle of youthful power—but then he had seemed that way for the entire decade Sarovy had served under him.
“Blood-price will hurt, but it has to be paid,” said the General, half to himself. “Including that for the cultists. If I had thought the renegade would go to ground with the Shadow Cult, I would have given you clearer instructions. We do not interfere with the cult or its business.”
“But sir—“
“No. And I don’t want you bandying it about that I compromise with them, but it’s necessary. The only concessions I’ve managed to wring from them are closing the southward trade routes and not actively supplying our enemies—and I have little way to verify the second part. We are on our own out here. I must do what I can to keep us on course.”
Stiff-faced, Sarovy nodded, but his stomach sank. His General—his leader—was trying to justify this pandering to the enemy. To the Dark. “I understand, sir,” he said, struggling to mask his unease. “We will not disturb them again.”
“See to it that you don’t. Is the fugitive still in their care?”
“I don’t know, sir. Trevere claims to have spotted him near the surface, but we have been tricked before.”
The General shook his blond head. “If he is, we’ll have to fall back on diplomacy, and I don’t know if we can pay them what they’d ask, especially if they know what he is.”
“And…what is he, sir?”
“You saw him. You had Trevere explain.”
“Yes, sir. But I still do not understand. If the spirit within him is so important, why send us? Why no greater force?”
In the image, the General grimaced. “You were a battalion commander once, Sarovy.”
“Yes sir. Captain-Major, Second Bowman’s Battalion, Emerald Corps, Imperial First Army the Sapphire Eye.”
“During that time, you— No, you’ve been mindwashed.” The General sighed again. “Suffice to say that you are what I have chosen from the options available. We were trying to do this quietly, but if it’s begun manifesting through the bonds... I still want him brought back but I expect we can’t reason with it now.”
“Sir? Reason with it? I thought it was dangerous and needed exorcism.”
The General paused, then said, “Yes. And it will be destroyed as soon as possible.”
“After witnessing it, I am not certain that my men can capture—“
“Support Trevere. This is all I need from you.”
"Trevere tried to kill it, sir."
"He knows what he's doing."
“As you say, sir. But we’ve lost a mage, and the mindwashing—“
“You still have the Gejaran mage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have him contact the outpost at Miirut. He should have a scrying stone for it. They will send a mentalist to mindwash.”
“Sir, that’s not what—“
“Is there anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Get Trevere for me. You are dismissed.”
Sarovy looked up to find Trevere still staring. The Hunter smiled a slow, unpleasant smile as their eyes met, and slid fluidly from his chair. “My turn, is it?”
Nodding, Sarovy stepped away from the basin and let Trevere take his place and the silver-edged blade. As Trevere nicked his finger and dripped blood into the bowl, a shiver went up Sarovy’s arm: that cold wire sensation in reverse, a thin thread of self retracting from the arcane scry. The faint ambient sounds he had barely noticed—breath, rustled papers, movement in the darkness of that distant room—vanished from his head.
Trevere flapped a hand at him dismissively. At his own scry, Voorkei was deep in grumbled conversation with the unseen Inquisitor Archmagus and did not glance up.
Rubbing his arm, Sarovy turned and headed out into the dark of the sleeping garrison, closing the door behind him.
He was not tired. He should have been, for all the effort and trouble he had seen this day, and he should have been hungry but that fire in his gut had been neatly extinguished. His legs were restless, inviting him to pace the dark corridors, but he turned them toward the stairs. Checking on his men might ease his mind.
One small part of it, at least.
He lied to me. As he descended the stairs to the rally-room, Sarovy turned that moment over in his head: that slight pause before the General’s assurance that the creature would be destroyed. Something hung there unsaid—something he blindly connected with the General’s question about his time in the upper ranks.
But he could not remember that time, and had little desire to do so. As he peeked into the bunkrooms, counting heads under the perpetual glare of the mage-lights, all he could think of was the lie.
What are we really doing here?
Four men missing from their beds. He swung by the infirmary to find two asleep in cots under the watchful eye of a plump woman in a red-and-white striped robe, who raised a finger to her lips before returning to her book. He moved quietly to consider them: Sergeant Benson with the crushed leg, his complexion returned to normal, his snoring also normal; and Kenner, who had taken a slash across the thigh and a poke in the ribs from one of the few cultists who had carried a blade, and who now slept deeply on his good side.
They would mend. Sarovy knew he should roust a city guard and ask where the morgue was. See the three he had lost. Start penning the letters that would eventually reach their families with the blood stipend.
But they were still on mission and he had two more men to account for. Letters could wait.
By a combination of deduction and good hearing, he found his way out to the f
ront steps of the garrison. It overlooked the grand square that was the heart of Bahlaer’s government district—a fine but sparse plaza that he had barely given a glance to at their arrival in daylight or their subsequent return after dark. In the very center, a marble maiden poured a fine stream of water from her pitcher into the faint night breeze, the fountain beneath her rippling quietly from the drops. On the steps, looking out at the white façades of the tax office and court and library and the tall spires of the Lord Governor’s mansion, sat his soldiers, keeping company with the night watchman and his lantern.
“Virn. Wolfsden,” he said quietly, and Wolfsden flicked the butt of a cheroot away with a swiftness born of long, furtive habit. It was only then, seeing that he had surprised them, that Sarovy realized he was not wearing his boots. The cold of the stone steps was just beginning to seep through the patches on his socks.
I suppose I am tired, he thought as the men came to their feet in anxious salute. The night watchman only turned, still sitting, his own cheroot hanging insolently from the corner of his mouth.
“Inside. Get to bed,” he told them. They went in a rattle of mail. He would berate them later, because right now he understood the lure of rashi—the calm it instilled before the hallucinations came.
If only this had all been rashi hallucinations.
A cold look for the watchman and he went inside. Closed the door. Checked again to be sure that all the men were in their places. At the last room he stopped and stared at an empty bunk and envisioned himself crawling in, but the armor dragged at his shoulders; it would take a while to get out of, and make too much noise.
He ended up in the darkened mess hall, cutting a slice from a wheel of cheese the men had left out in their half-asleep rummaging. Lack of appetite was unimportant; food was necessary. Perched on the bench at the long table, he stared at the piece, and at the gleam of the knife in the moonlight that came through the narrow windows.
In the corners, shadows gathered silently.
*****
“If you think I’m going to discuss this with you, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Cob opened his eyes to a black sky, star-strewn, the mother moon still clinging to the western horizon. Directly above hung that great blankness called the Eye of Night, around which the constellations of Phoenix and Leviathan constantly battled. He shuddered instinctively; it was unhealthy to be out beneath the Eye. In fact, the only good time to be out at night was when the Chain of Ydgys was up, with its thick band of stars illuminating the darkness nearly as well as the mother moon, and that time was not now.
“I have a right to know,” said a gruff, familiar voice behind him.
Blinking, Cob pushed up on his elbows and looked around. He was laid out in the back of a small open cart, half-covered by a drift of vegetable sacks. As he moved, a furry head lifted off his thigh and perked tattered ears. “Toivo,” he mumbled, confused, and the ragged dog shimmied closer to lick his chin.
“You have no rights,” said the first voice, the one that had woken him. Curt, caustic—a stranger’s. He looked up to the two figures on the driver’s bench, easily identifying Jasper by his bulk and the slouch of his hat. The other man was smaller, slighter, with a cloak slung over his coat and a mane of unruly hair. “Where were you when she died?” the stranger continued, his sneer audible. “You abdicated your position at that moment, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I can’t be responsible for every Justiciar action—“
“No? I thought you were supposed to be important.”
“Listen. Sh—“ Jasper glanced down at Cob as if by reflex, then did a double-take. “Ah, our passenger awakens,” he said, false jollity springing into his voice.
The other man looked back just enough for Cob to catch the gleam of an eye and a sharp cheekbone. “You mean my passenger.”
“Yes, yes, your passenger. Cob, lad, how do you feel?”
Cob shifted around to face the two men, suspicious. The vise that had gripped his skull in Bahlaer was gone, but he felt light-headed and his stomach seemed to be gnawing on his spine. “Fine,” he said, trying to dig up the memory of how he had gotten here. One moment he had been running with Lark, and then…
“Good. I brought your pack.”
Cob glanced to where Jasper pointed and found Ammala’s bundle crammed in the corner of the cart-bed. “Thanks,” he said, and pulled it into his lap. There was food inside. Right now that seemed the most important thing.
“Well, he’s awake,” said the stranger as Cob tugged apart the cords. “You can get off now. That was the deal.”
“Sh-- Morshoc. You know I can’t just—“
“You can. You have to. What could you offer him? Cryptic ‘teaching’ stories and a blatant lack of intervention when it’s most needed? You’ve already put him in danger.”
“And you’ve been so innocent?”
“I was trying to stay out of it. But no, you had to rush in and ‘help’ despite the trouble it will cause, so now it’s my problem too. Don’t make me invoke my authority.”
“Now, now. Can’t we discuss this like—“
“Friends? We’re not friends, ‘Jasper’.”
“No. I recognize that. But we have worked to mutual benefit before, and if we can come to some accord on this…”
“You know the rules as well as I do. You can’t be here.”
Jasper sighed heavily. “Perhaps we should ask him how he wishes to proceed.”
Cob looked up from cramming a wad of bread and goat-cheese into his mouth to find them both watching him; ahead, the cart-horse plodded along without apparent need for guidance. “Umph,” he grunted, chewed, swallowed, then said, “What?”
“We are debating your future,” said the stranger, a thread of amusement interweaving the acid of his voice.
“What’s to debate? I’m goin’ on the pikin’ pilgrimage,” Cob said, eyeing them both. “And I don’t care who you are, y’not gonna change my mind. I’m not deaf, so don’t pretend I didn’t jus’ hear you. Justiciar.”
Jasper had the grace to look abashed. The other man—Morshoc—smirked and said, “Engaging the boy under false pretenses, Jasper? What a surprise. And yes, of course you’re going on the pilgrimage. But while that’s a start, there are a few things you should know before you reach Daecia City. Judging by the blood on you, I’d say you’re discovering them.”
Cob stiffened, the bread halting halfway to his mouth. He had almost managed to forget the tavern and the black, rustling corridor, and all the horrors Lark had told him he had perpetrated. Now they rushed back in a sickening wave, and his gut roiled.
Possessed. I’m possessed by the Dark.
“Don’t bait the lad,” said Jasper sternly. “He’s not ready.”
“Oh, and I suppose I should ‘ease into it’ by dropping little hints and taking him to tea-parties? Maybe I should tell some stories about lions and sorcerers and see if he can make any blasted sense of it. It’s funny, you have such a delicate touch for someone who wades in with a hammer when he runs out of words.”
“Morshoc…”
“Don’t ‘Morshoc’ me. You know I’m in the right.”
Another aggrieved sigh from the old man. “And I suppose you’ll tell him everything up front, sharp and precise. From stoning the temple windows to whatever it is you’re up to now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. But here, I’ll start with some plain truth.”
A creak of the bench, then Cob felt the stranger lean closer, and managed to dredge his attention up from the black depths enough to focus. The moonlight outlined the man’s sharp features and reflected in his narrow eyes, making him look somehow feral as he hissed, “I knew your father.”
Cob grabbed Morshoc by the throat and yanked him from the bench, a reflex effort keyed to that last word. He did not feel his own rage until a moment later, by which time he had already clamped both hands around the man’s neck. Everything had gone red—no darkness, just fury, the way it went any tim
e someone in camp made a snide remark about his father. Dimly he heard Jasper spit an oath, but the old man did not intervene, and as his grip tightened on Morshoc’s throat, Cob growled, “You what?”
Morshoc’s expression was rigid as stone. His gloved hands rose as if in surrender, then clasped lightly on Cob’s tense forearms. Even through the intervening clothes, they were chillingly cold. “Do not touch me,” he said in a warning voice.
Cob was not impressed. Half-off the bench and shorter by at least a handspan, Morshoc was no threat. But a twinge went through his skull as the man glared at him, and for a moment the world wavered, the air filling with the dull rasp of scales on scales—
He let go, shoving Morshoc away, and the man struggled upright. As his hands left Cob’s arms, the sky silenced.
“Who are you?” Cob demanded as they retook their positions, glares locked from just beyond arm’s length. Beside Morshoc, Jasper grumbled as he struggled with the reins.
“Your other half,” said Morshoc curtly.
That made so little sense that Cob just stared, torn between grabbing him again or spitting on him and leaving. In the back of his mind he knew he was being irrational; Morshoc knowing his father was nothing like his army comrades sneering at him for being a legacy slave, or the quarry-men condemning him as the son of a traitor. But his hate knew no logic, and it took an effort of will to push it back down and cap the well.
Morshoc stared back, the faintest hint of a mocking smile on his lips, until Jasper finally punched him in the shoulder. “Ow,” he said, turning to scowl at the older man. “Don’t think you can touch me either.”
“And you said you’re better at this.”
“I am!”
“Feh. Here, take the blasted reins. This is the last time I’ll apologize for you.”
“I never asked you to.”
Without response, Jasper slung his legs over the back of the driver’s bench and lowered himself to the cart-bed. He was dressed as before, the moonlight bleaching the colors from his roughspun tunic and breeches, but he doffed his hat as he sat by Cob. Not too close and not facing him, but with his back to the cart’s side and the hat clasped between his heavy, scarred hands.
The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 24
