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

by Davis, H. Anthe

  “She sought proof.

  “They called her the Watching Spider back then. Some still do. Her followers were diplomats, spies, infiltrators, investigators, gatherers of information, and they began to tell her that her lover had taken up with another. Or, as it seemed, several others. Several very specific others.

  “The god of Law was known to have a close relationship with his knights. They served his word alone—not the petty edicts of mortal rulers but a celestial law that considered all life equally—and they were vanishingly few. After all, not many people could shed their personal prejudices and all their possessions, withstand bribes and the promise of softer lives, or indeed abandon their kin and loved ones and show no preference toward them over any other mortal.

  “For their sacrifices, they were blessed by the constant presence of their god. His essence dwelt within them. And according to the rumor, it had become a joining more sexual than spiritual.

  “At first, the goddess of Knowledge brushed it off as nonsense. Some of the gods did tomcat around with mortals—the Shadow Lord and Iroliyale the Traveler specifically—but Law had always appeared to stand aloof. It was in her nature to investigate, though, and soon she became obsessed with the subject. Her followers trailed the knights at all times and reported visitations by Law, ecstatic trances, and all sorts of sordid deeds. When she confronted him, the god of Law denied it all.

  “She became convinced that he was an imposter. Reports piled up, conflicts sparked between her agents and his knights, and her direct interrogation of him brought stony silence. At last, enmeshed in her web of evidence, her heart poisoned against him, she decided that he had to be erased.

  “Her agents became her assassins. One by one, they murdered the Knights of Law, and when the enraged god came to confront her in her realm, she fell upon him and tore him apart. But that act gave her no peace, for she looked upon the world and imagined it tainted by the Law-imposter’s touch.

  “Since then, she has used her agents to murder anyone who stands against her warped view of the true Law’s beliefs. Some say she even destroyed the First Light and brought on the Long Darkness—but I can’t vouch for that.

  “All I really know is that the agents who brought her the first rumors, and thereafter supplied her the evidence of Law’s wrongdoing, were Imperials.”

  Cob took a moment to absorb all of that, then scowled. “How? The Empire didn’t exist ‘til after the Long Darkness!”

  “The formal Empire, yes; that didn’t start until the Daecian king declared that he had raised the sun. But the individuals and entities that created the Empire were active long before then.”

  “That’s hog-crap. Why does everyone try to blame everythin’ on the Empire even when they have to twist the facts to make it work?”

  “You don’t have to believe me. I don’t mind.”

  “The Lord Knight wasn’t a god, the pikin’ Nemesis is Dark and that’s why she killed him, there was no stupid pre-Imperial Imperial conspiracy, the Phoenix Emperor rekindled the Light, you’re full of shit, and that’s that.”

  “Whatever you say, Cob.”

  “And when I get to Daecia City I will bloody well sling myself onto an altar, if that’s what it takes to get cleansed!”

  Morshoc barked a laugh. “Oh, now you’re punishing yourself and thinking that will punish me? You’re such a child. ‘Purification through sacrifice’ isn’t what you want it to be.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Figure it out. I’m tired of explaining.”

  The urge to lurch up and shove Morshoc off the bench came and went. Cob exhaled through his teeth and closed his eyes, trying to calm his churning thoughts. There was no way he would humor Morshoc by doing what he said; he already knew how the world worked and did not need a delusional spiritist to tell him.

  As the echoes of the argument faded, though, he frowned.

  “You said you’d speak plain to me,” he told Morshoc’s back.

  The Corvishman made a sound of disgust. “You don’t consider this plain? Just because I ask you to rub two thoughts together on your own does not put me in the same cryptic basket with Jasper and his awful stories. Would you rather I talked about lions and hedge mazes?”

  “Why do you hate Jasper?”

  “I don’t-- I don’t hate him. We have a history.”

  “What sorta history?”

  There was a silence, then Morshoc said, "Like you and I, right now. Young man just setting out, mysterious older fellow who knows too much… Except I was younger than you. Just a child. Imagine if all this had begun right after your mother’s death.”

  Cob stiffened. “What d’you pikin’ know about my mother?”

  “She hanged herself when you converted to the Light.”

  Redness filled his world. Teeth bared, he grabbed Morshoc by the cloak and yanked, spilling him backward into the cart-bed. Pinning him to the slats, he clenched his hands around the Corvishman’s neck and started to squeeze.

  This time, Morshoc’s face remained placid. His gloved fingers cinched on Cob’s wrists and sent an enervating rush of ice up his arms, into his shoulders. Cob gasped as his hands lost their clench, and tried to pull away but could not break Morshoc’s grip.

  “I understand that family can be a sensitive subject,” Morshoc said, an odd smile curving his mouth. “As can truth. But this is the second time, and I did tell you not to touch me, yes?”

  “Yeah,” Cob said quickly. The chill surmounted his right shoulder and fanned across his back, sapping the strength from the muscle. On his left arm, it halted just below his brand and the bronze band.

  “And you will not do it again, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” With that, Morshoc released Cob’s wrists. Cob pulled back immediately, hissing as feeling returned to his arms in a buzz of pins-and-needles. He felt himself trembling, felt a hollowness grow in the pit of his stomach, a metallic taste in his mouth.

  Fear. There was power in the Corvishman after all.

  “You have quite a temper, Cobrin,” said Morshoc as he swung back onto the bench and straightened his cloak and coat. The cart had slowed to a halt, the horse’s head down; when he retrieved the reins, it reluctantly heaved back into motion. “You should do something about that. It will get you into trouble.”

  Cob held his tongue and sank down to the cart-bed, chafing his arms vigorously. Temper was what had gotten him through the slave ranks, where the only discipline was that enforced by other slaves and where a reputation for not fearing the whipping-pole could make them leave you alone. Cob had gone to the pole more times than he could remember, mostly for fighting in view of freesoldiers—intentionally. More than once, he had thrown a bully out from an alleyway into plain sight so that they would both get what was coming to them.

  The rage was a constant now. Like an underground river, always down there in the dark, waiting to surge up when someone punctured through his veneer of control.

  Trying to force his mind from the previous conversation—and the idea of leaping off and escaping through the grassland—Cob said roughly, “Why are you cold?”

  “Hm?”

  “If you’re possessed by a spirit of fire, why’re you always so pikin’ cold?”

  “I don’t see why it matters.”

  “You said you’d tell me the truth.”

  “Truth comes at a price, Cobrin. Right now you can’t pay it. Behave better and I might reconsider.”

  Cob scowled but let it go. Far behind them, the stormclouds had begun to let down their veils of rain. Good tidings for the farm-folk, who might plant again if there was enough of it. Bad for the army, who would have to sandbag the riverbank to keep it from washing away half of camp.

  Good for Kanrodi, whose water-supply had to be dwindling after a long dry season without its aqueducts.

  It was hard to care. All of that was behind him.

  As for what lay ahead…

  He closed his ey
es. It has to be better. Light, please let it be better.

  Chapter 13 – The Pursuit

  The first droplets hit Sarovy’s gauntlets and he cursed under his breath. Already the horses were flagging. Since leaving the garrison they had ridden straight and hard, but the storm was overtaking them and from Voorkei’s grunted updates he gathered that they were no closer to catching their quarry. How a rickety cart could have gotten so far ahead was beyond him.

  They had lost time in Bahlaer, first in waiting for the Miirutin mages and then in the necessary explanations. Sarovy had convinced the Miirutin to take the city guards who had survived the underground ambush first, and while those mindwashes were in progress he had led his men out and mounted up. No doubt the Miirutin had reported his defiance to the General by now.

  That would mean demotion. He did not look forward to being a Lancer again, but high rank and honor had been out of reach for a long, long time, and the loss would not hurt much. Not like falling from Captain-Major.

  And if they succeeded—if they somehow managed to catch their prey—then he could argue that the results trumped procedure.

  Ahead, Trevere’s horse led them by a long stretch. Ten-Sky horses were lighter, swifter and far more skittish than the lancers’ Tasgards; they were good for messengers and scouts, but useless in combat. The rumbling clouds presaged more rain and perhaps lightning, and when that happened, the Sky horses would become a hazard.

  Some distance behind Trevere was Jegen’s horse, now bearing the Shadow Cult prisoner. It pained Sarovy to see the woman in command of her own steed. He kept expecting her to yank the reins and veer off into the grassland, where the lancers on their heavy horses would never be able to catch her. But the runes on the orange ribbon flashed any time she fell too far behind Trevere, and she kept her heels to the horse’s flanks and its head turned to the road. Fear of pain, fear of death obviously motivated her more than the desire for freedom.

  Above, the clouds crawled faster than they could ride. The wind from the west was warm and wet, salt-scented, and it yanked at the crest of his helm and pushed his billowing cloak to a diagonal. Slats of light still fell across the road, but they were closing rapidly. All around them, the land was flat and featureless, the first roll of the northern hills yet distant.

  A short burst of raindrops pattered on his helm. Then a flash from behind, and the crack and roar of thunder.

  Sarovy’s horse flinched but kept pace. Ahead he saw the woman’s leap sideways, its sharp ears flaring. Trevere’s raced on.

  He scanned the fields. A troop of men clad in metal would be in trouble no matter how fast they were riding. Ahead in the west, trees rose like a skeletal fence from the center of a huge reaped square of grassland, a windbreak for a half-hidden collection of buildings. A glimpse of red paint through their branches and he knew it for an Imperial farmstead, one of the many they had forced into service. It would house slave-workers, a few supervisors, possibly the original family as well.

  Temporary shelter. Pike the bad weather, but it was necessary.

  “Trevere!” he shouted, but the wind snatched it away. Another flare lit up the midday darkness, more distant but no less loud as the thunder reached them. He spotted the trail that cut toward the farm and cursed as Trevere sped right past it. Raising one arm in signal, he turned his steed toward the trail.

  His men followed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Trevere glance back, then yank his horse about. The prisoner followed suit.

  As Sarovy’s horse reached the fence that bordered the stubble-thick fields and lined the trail, the sky opened up. Rain struck him like someone had upended a pail over his head. Visibility cut down to a yard and all sound vanished beneath the drumming on his helm. He reined in, but only slightly lest he be overridden.

  Fence-posts passed in a blur. Through the veil of rain he saw the last one go by and yanked the reins aside, turning his horse into the yard before the farm’s structures. Looking back, he saw the dim shapes of his men splitting off in all directions, quick and professional with a minimum of jostling. They were all veterans of the Jernizan war; they knew what they were doing.

  Already the packed earth of the yard was awash with water, too dry to absorb it. Sarovy tried to remember what he had glimpsed of the layout. Farmhouse at the front, barns to the side and rear…

  A Ten-Sky horse danced through the press, shied at a distant slash of lightning and came to a halt nearby. Sarovy squinted over and saw Trevere shouting something, his eyes slitted beneath his plastered forelocks, but heard nothing. Shaking his head, he twitched his reins and led the way around the indistinct bulk of the farmhouse, his men falling in behind him, to find shelter.

  *****

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Trevere raged ahead of Lark as they stomped over the threshold of the farmhouse, soaking wet.

  “Not getting struck by lightning,” said the lieutenant flatly.

  “I don’t care about lightning! We have to catch up!”

  “I have an idea.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Lark stepped aside from the door and let the soldiers pass while she wrung her braids out. The entry from the farmhouse led into a broad L-shaped room, the long end somewhat sunken and filled at the moment with surprised farmhands at a collection of trestle tables. At the short end, right by the front door, was a nicer table half-piled with papers and logbooks, with a door to the kitchen beyond it and a set of stairs heading up into darkness. The older man who had answered the door flinched as Lieutenant Sarovy swept the papers aside and swung his dripping saddlebags onto the table.

  “Savinnor,” said the lieutenant. “It has a larger garrison. Several mages.”

  “So what? We alert them? I’m not letting--”

  “You! What do you think you’re doing, barging in here?” came a voice from the stairs, and Lark looked over to see a man in a thrown-on Crimson uniform staring at the sudden influx of soaked soldiers.

  Sarovy and Trevere exchanged glances, then Trevere smiled with an excess of teeth.

  “Sir. I have something you might like to see,” he said, approaching the stairs. Lark saw him reach down to his belt and felt a thrill of mingled horror and glee—was he about to stab one of his own people? But he just flipped open the scroll case that hung by the dagger and pulled out a parchment.

  The Crimson officer snapped from his hand with a scowl. Then read it, and blanched, and offered it back as if it was a live snake.

  “Please get your people out of our way,” Trevere said pleasantly.

  “Yes, uh, yessir!” The officer snapped an awkward salute, then squeezed past him and rushed into the lower room to shout orders to the assembled farmhands.

  “Voorkei!” called the lieutenant as the big mage ducked in and yanked the door shut behind him. Lark leaned away, wrinkling her nose; wet, he smelled even more like ogre and pungent herbs. He gave her a broad grin and a wink when he spotted her, then ambled to the table, and she shuddered and crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

  Sarovy had pulled a map from the saddlebags and spread it on the table. With Voorkei over one shoulder and Trevere at the other, he said, “The pilgrimage.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “He will have to use the Rift Climb, and for that, he will pass Savinnor. There are no roads cross-cutting to the Climb before that. We contact Savinnor and have them open a portal, and resume the chase from there.”

  Trevere scowled. “We should have done that from Bahlaer—“

  “Had I known he was so far ahead, I would have recommended it. But we can do it now. Can we contact Savinnor?”

  “I have stone,” said Voorkei.

  “Then quickly,” said Trevere, excitement swelling in his voice. “If we can cut them off on the road… Perfect.”

  Lark bit her lip as the mage started rummaging in his satchel. I should do something, she thought. She was unshackled, bound only by proximity and only to Trevere. She could nick a knife from
the kitchen, or a sword from the soldiers who were gathering around the fireplace in the lower room to strip off their wet cloaks. The farm officer was herding the last of his charges up the stairs, still giving Trevere the occasional frightened look; nearby, the older man—the farm’s owner—stood wringing his hands.

  Get a knife. Shank Voorkei before he can contact the other mages. Then…

  Probably get fed to that monster-blade.

  Not a good plan. Cob was an Imperialist and a bit of a brick-head; she had no desire to waste her life for him. And Trevere…

  ‘If you stay obedient, neither of you will have to die.’

  So he had told her when she gave up the goblin’s tooth. She did not trust him, but it was a thread of hope, however slender. With this ribbon on, she could not even run away.

  “Hsst!” said a small voice by her ear.

  She stiffened, then shifted her shoulders against the wall and tried to pretend that she had just been uncomfortable. The mage had not tossed his wisp-lights around yet.

  “Don’t speak,” said the voice. Now that she focused, she could feel a faint puff of dry air on the back of her neck, a pinspot pierced through the shadow. “We’ve been monitoring your situation. You’re in an ideal position right now.”

  For what? she wanted to say, but kept her mouth shut. She did not recognize the voice as one of Bahlaer's shadowbloods, so she had to assume this was an agent from higher up in the ranks.

  “We need to know more about the boy and their interest in him,” it continued. “The Regency has decided that you’ll stay with them for that purpose.”

  She winced.

  “Ask questions. Try to ingratiate yourself. Seduce one of them if you can. Any of those three—the officer, the monster, the mage. We need more information on all of them. Nod if you understand.”

  Oh, you can’t be serious, she thought, but nodded her head a fraction and heard a faint sigh through the pinspot.

  “We’re sorry about this,” said the voice, “but it’s important.”