The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1)

by Davis, H. Anthe

  “I can’t,” Trevere snarled. “You saw her robe?”

  “The medic’s? The appropriate red-and-white stripes. What—“

  “She’s not a medic, she’s a Trifolder. A Brigyddian, one of their healers. We haven’t exterminated them because they’ll heal anyone who asks for it, even us, but I can’t let her touch me. Will you stop badgering me now? Throne’s sake!”

  Sarovy frowned as he trailed Trevere down the stairs. Trifolder—the witch cult? That plump, pleasant-looking woman he had left in charge of his injured men?

  But the men were fine. They were up now, milling with their fellow soldiers in the rally room and the mess hall, Sergeant Benson with just a slight limp for his troubles. He had not questioned that. Too much had been going on with the assassination attempt and the prisoner.

  Light. Why has this become so complicated?

  A mindwash was starting to seem like a blessing.

  Ahead of him, Trevere threw open the door of the interrogation room and stormed in. Sarovy saw his men recoil; they had been lingering around Lark, perhaps listening to her, and she leaned back with a frightened look as Trevere approached. He grabbed her right wrist and, before she could react, tied the other orange ribbon around it tightly.

  “Feel the tingle?” he said, showing his own ribbon. “Now we’re linked. Anything that happens to me, happens to you. Stab me, you bleed. Kill me, you die. Stray too far and the same thing happens. Have I made myself clear?”

  Lark looked from the gleaming ribbon to Trevere, and a paroxysm of hate crossed her dark face. She spat at his feet, then sneered, “Very.”

  “Good. Lieutenant, don’t bother tying her up. She’ll need riding clothes, and so will I. See to it.”

  With that, Trevere turned and cut past him, hollering for the captain of the guard.

  Sarovy watched after the scout, not happy with leaving the girl caged by a mere ribbon—however enchanted. When he looked back to Lark, though, she returned his stare with wild eyes and a clenched jaw, like a cat caught in a trap, and he understood that she feared it.

  Something told him to put her out of her misery. Without thought, his hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.

  No. Duty, he thought. Duty.

  “Do not talk to her,” he snapped at the soldiers, who straightened guiltily.

  Then he turned and stalked out as well. There were clothes and provisions to assemble, men to herd, trouble to chase. And if they ‘accidentally’ missed the mindwash…

  Chapter 12 – A History Lesson

  By the time Cob woke again, the sun had lifted past the Rift, shedding heat across the grassy plains as they slowly bunched into hills. Cob ran a hand through the bristles of his short hair and blinked blearily. His mouth was parched and his skin covered in a fine layer of dust, but he felt all right. Good, even.

  Morshoc sat on the driver’s bench, straight-backed and silent. In daylight he was obviously Corvish, his unruly red hair the only evidence needed. He still wore both cloak and coat despite the fine weather, and did not move or speak as Cob fumbled around the cart for his canteen and Ammala’s bundle.

  As he swigged the lukewarm water, Cob took a few moments to straighten out his thoughts. He had dreamed of black ruins beneath a stitched white sky, where white birds circled invisibly and the ground ached like a broken tooth. Somehow it felt connected to that place he had gone when the blackness overtook him in the tavern. When Darilan had—

  What? Driven him into the Dark?

  It made no sense. His dreams had already changed once, from the cliffside trail with Lerien and the black gauntlets to that burning tower that seemed more like a memory. If these ruins-visions were another manifestation of the Dark, he would have expected something to happen—some escalation of its takeover. Instead, there had been nothing but the slow motion of the tide, the incessant circling of the birds.

  And a sense of waiting. Of impatience.

  With a sigh, he set aside the canteen and tugged on the edge of Morshoc’s coat. The Corvishman did not respond at first, and Cob felt a tingle of alarm. Then Morshoc shook himself and looked back at Cob, frowning. His face was startlingly pale. “Something you want?”

  Cob squinted up at the stranger he now followed. The night conversation almost felt like a dream itself. There had been a tension between Jasper and Morshoc that he still could not fathom, and in the light of day all the reckless events of the previous evening felt thin and washed-out, like they had not happened.

  Unfortunately, the blood that covered his front said they had.

  “I… You know things, don’t you,” Cob said haltingly.

  The Corvishman snorted and turned forward again, but patted the driver’s bench beside him. “I know many things. It’s time for you to learn a few.”

  Cob dug a crust of bread and some dried fruit from the bundle, then clambered up onto the bench. This cart was much smaller than Jasper’s, with a simple foot-bar to brace his heels against. Just beyond it, the cart-horse’s heavy rump heaved back and forth between the traces; it was a Tasgard horse, dun-colored and huge, and evidently not much bothered by the weight of the two men or the cart. They were moving at a good clip along the deeply rutted road, the wheels locked in their courses and the ride surprisingly smooth.

  “Bread?” Cob offered, but Morshoc shook his head.

  “I ate.”

  Must’ve got it in his pockets, Cob thought, because beside his own gear, the only things the cart was hauling were empty vegetable sacks, and half of those had slipped out the open end during the night. Chewing his meager meal, Cob eyed his companion critically.

  The only Corvishman he had ever really known was Weshker. They came from Corvia on the other side of the Rift, in the volcanic mountains and forests of the Khaeleokiel range that overhung the protectorate of Wyndon and the Imperial Road. Once nomadic hunters, they now made their living by raiding the Wyndish settlements that encroached on their ancestral territory. Easterners considered them to be savages and vermin. From Weshker’s example, Cob just found them exasperating.

  It lightened his heart to know that Weshker was still alive.

  Morshoc had the look: coppery hair, near-black eyes, angular vulpine features and a wiry build. One of his brows was cut through by an old scar, giving it a sardonic lift, and the narrow bone-structure that had looked cheery on Weshker made him appear sharp, reserved and above all cunning. Despite that, he did not seem to be a rough man; he carried no visible weapons and his plain travel garb spoke of a tradesman’s background, if anything.

  “So…where do we start?” Cob said cautiously.

  “You don’t want to fling questions at me?”

  He did, but he could hardly articulate them. The facts were still too scrambled-up with his fears. “I wanna hear what you think I should know.”

  Morshoc snorted, but said, “Fine. Can we discuss your father without you attacking me again?”

  Cob clenched his teeth on the dried kalcha he was chewing, but nodded slowly. Though it was definitely not his choice for first topic of the morning, he had asked for it.

  “Dernyel, son of Rithmar. I only knew him briefly,” said Morshoc. “He was deep into the spirit by then—the same one you carry. I suppose you’re aware of it by now?”

  “The Dark thing that made me attack people.”

  “Mm, not exactly. It’s called the Guardian, or Aesangat in the old tribal tongue, and it’s not what you think of as ‘Dark’. Oh, it has connections to the darker side of things—specifically the physical elements of water, earth and wood—but it has no relation to that Dark-against-Light propaganda the Empire likes to sow. It’s older than that by far. One half of the Great Spirit that used to rule all creatures.

  “But anyway, your father was working its will in the mountains of Kerrindryr, trying to organize a resistance to the Empire’s incursions. You likely never saw the meetings. You were very young then, and he usually sent you out to watch the goats.”

  Memory loomed, and Cob
grimaced. The cloaked and secretive travelers on the path to their cave-home, the ringhawks gyring in the updrafts from the river chasm, the green fields of the village so far below and the obstinate braying of the goats on the rocks above him as he watched the strangers come and go…

  He shook it off, and glimpsed Morshoc watching him sidelong through those slanted eyes. The Corvishman looked back to the road. “Anyway, you know what happened to him. I won’t bring it up. But before that, he’d been in touch with everyone he could reach, including the Muriae, who aren’t normally in the Guardian’s purview. They’re called the Silver Ones for a reason—one of the peoples of metal.”

  “I know,” Cob mumbled.

  “I met with him once because he had gotten them involved. I will tell you right now that I have nothing against you or him or the Guardian itself, but you need to respect my territory. I am air, fire and metal. They belong to me. You will confine your dealings to your own elements.”

  Cob blinked, taken aback.

  “I will not say that the Muriae were his downfall,” Morshoc continued bluntly, “but they certainly did not come to his aid when the Empire arrived on his doorstep. Consider it a warning. You may be Kerrindrixi and thus fascinated by the mythology of the Silver Ones, but they will not help you. You’re not their kind.

  “Of course, since you’re going to Daecia City, I assume you already realize that.”

  “I…uh…” Cob said, still at a loss.

  “Anyway, from what I gather, the Imperials had learned a few things about the Guardian by then. It has plagued them since the very founding of the Empire, but it’s always been one step ahead of their attempts to destroy it. Unfortunately, it has to inhabit a body before it can have any effect on the world, which is a problematic carry-over from a long, nasty stretch of history I might touch on later. Suffice to say that it needs not only a vessel but a partner: a mortal soul that it binds with and lends all its strength and wisdom to, but whom it flees when the partner is no longer of use.

  “However, it keeps a fragment of its vessel within itself, a sort of…imprint of the soul. These imprints can linger for a long time, almost like separate entities, and continue to influence it.

  “And thus, you. The Empire learned about those imprints and decided that to trap the Guardian, they should steal descendants of its vessels and put them in danger. See if it showed up to save them.”

  Cob swallowed thickly, his head buzzing with Morshoc’s words. My father, a Dark vessel. Cult meetings in our home. Contact with the Silver Ones. If that was true, it was more than high treason. He did not even have a word for the magnitude of that heresy.

  A fragment of its vessel. An imprint of the soul.

  His head hurt suddenly, harshly, as if his thoughts were being strained against a colander. Slats of white light crisscrossed his vision. He gripped the edge of the cart, the remaining dried fruit slipping from his fingers as he fought vertigo. There was something black beneath him, rising like flood-waters, and when it pressed him up against the razor-white sky he knew he would be slashed apart.

  “No, no, settle down,” said Morshoc at his ear. His breath burned like frost. “It’s not time yet. The bonds are still too tight, and I know you can’t bear it when they die.”

  For a moment there was nothing but the black crush and the white net.

  Then the netherworld of his dreams receded. The sky wheeled drunkenly but at least it was normal, the ground a comforting tan and green. Dizzied, he stayed upright only due to Morshoc’s cold grip on his arm. The Corvishman was stronger than he looked.

  Slowly he regained his balance, then hung his aching head into his hands.

  “You’re a trap, you see?” said Morshoc. “Made after your father died, so that the Empire could catch the entity that had fled him at his death. It wants to leave you just as much as you want it gone, but it can’t. And the Empire pursues you so that it can destroy you both.”

  Cob looked away, unable to form words. Morshoc was wrong—had to be. The Dark thing had taken him over completely in the Shadow Cult tavern, and according to Lark it had battered its way through soldiers and mage-work alike. If it had that kind of power…

  Don’t think about it. Just get rid of it.

  Dimly he realized that Morshoc was still supporting him, and he tugged his arm in the man’s grip; after a moment, Morshoc released him. Cob was glad of it. The chill that radiated through the Corvishman’s glove unnerved him.

  For a time, they rode in silence.

  Then, abruptly, the cart lurched upward on his side, and he raised his head in alarm. But it was not the world moving: it was Morshoc driving horse and cart onto the embankment at a perilous angle, grass and scrub-brush crackling beneath the wheels as they drove toward the river that paralleled the road.

  “What the pike are you doin’?” Cob shouted, clinging to the bench. Beside him, Morshoc’s face was fixed in concentration. The left front wheel mounted the embankment and for a moment they were tilted backward dangerously, then the rear wheels heaved up and they straightened.

  Cob hung on tight as they rumbled down the rough slope on the other side. Bracken thwacked the undercarriage; here the land was greener than by Ammala’s place, the undergrowth less spiny but thick, the earth not quite so hard-baked, and on the bank of the slow-flowing river there was mud as well as sand. Morshoc reined in short of the mud and the cart groaned to a stop. The horse lowered its head to crop listlessly at the weeds.

  “What is wrong with you?” Cob snapped as his gut slowly unclenched.

  Already swinging off, Morshoc glanced up and lifted his brows in amusement. “Second thoughts about riding with me?”

  “Third and fourth, actually.”

  “You’ll live.” He jerked his chin toward the river. “Go wash up, you’re a mess. I need to pick up supplies, so I’ll get you some clothes too.” He started off through the weeds and Cob glimpsed cottages in that direction, tucked into the roll of the hills and shaded by fruit-trees.

  Cob scowled after him, then looked down at himself, at all the blood. Morshoc was right.

  He tossed his boots and socks into the cart and swung down, callused heels indifferent to pebbles and thorns. At the edge of the river, he sank his toes into the warm mud and picked at his tunic, then remembered the letter beneath.

  Flattened and blood-edged, it was in bad shape, and he cringed at the thought of handing it over to Ammala’s son. But he had promised. The blessing-cord around it was still intact, so he hung it from the branches of a brown-leafed bush where he would see it, then sat down in the shallow water.

  The cords of his breeches were crusted over and almost unworkable. He yanked them apart, redness wisping away through the water. The gore had lacquered his clothes to him, and beneath them scales of blood plated his belly and thighs; when he peeled the fabric away, hairs went with them in a horrid stinging wave. Teeth gritted, he scrubbed viciously at the remaining blood with handfuls of sand until everything from navel to knees felt raw. The silvery crystal arrowhead lay like ice against the hollow of his sweating throat.

  He tossed the ruined clothes on the bank, refilled his canteen from upstream, then waded deeper into the water. It was lukewarm on the surface, slightly cooler below, sluggish and burnished by the hot Illanic sun. He wished for the cold instead--for Kerrindryr’s arctic torrents that stung like knives then numbed; for the glassy beauty of the sheer ice-sheened cliffs; for the way blood froze in the wound. He touched the arrowhead as if it could summon that cold.

  All it summoned was the memory of white walls and white ceiling—the inside of the infirmary—and Darilan’s relieved face, his murky eyes. The first things Cob had seen when his mind had cleared from delirium, when the wraith-arrow in his side had finally released its grip.

  Cob clenched his hand around the arrowhead until it hurt. He did not want to remember their friendship.

  Because if he was a trap set for this ‘Guardian’…

  Then someone had to be minding
the trap.

  Suddenly five years of his life turned to ashes. The bracing hand, the calm word when he was twelve and newly orphaned? Artifice. The laughter, the security of having someone to watch his back? Orders.

  The friend that had lingered at his bedside, fidgeting, pacing, as he floated in and out of consciousness?

  Never existed.

  His eyes stung and he sank deeper in the water, up to his neck and then his chin, furious with himself. He had barely wept for his mother and certainly not for his father—that bastard, the cause of all his suffering—so why now? Why for the traitor he should have suspected all along?

  A flicker of motion caught his eye across the river and he forced himself to focus.

  A hare. Dun-colored, timid, its long ears tilted in his direction. His brows crinkled. The river was wide here but he was near enough to the far shore that when the hare edged closer, it puzzled him. He had little experience with wild animals. A few days on Varaku and in the wraith forest did not a woodsman make.

  Then a flare of wings descended next to him and he lurched away, heels digging in the silt, as a large crow alit on one of the protruding river rocks. It tilted its head at him, then dipped its bone-white beak into the drifting water.

  He stared at it, then looked around, realizing with growing amazement that he was not alone at all. On the bank behind him, a small family of hares lapped at the water, keeping a polite distance from the wild garto that picked its way through the shallows. Unlike the domestic dwarf ones, the wild garto was taller than Cob, with a long black-scaled neck and red-feathered body and a curved black beak longer than his forearm. It regarded him with one glittering eye, then, like the crow, returned to its business.

  Further downstream, a tan scrub-fox emerged from the brush, sniffing the air. The hares tensed but did not flee.

  “Um,” Cob said, then realized he was about to try to talk to animals and sighed instead. They paid him no mind. He ran a damp hand through his hair, trying to consider this rationally. None of them were too close; maybe wild creatures were bolder than he had thought.