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

by Davis, H. Anthe

  As much as Cob wanted to snap at him, he smothered it this time. After a moment, Morshoc said, "Where was I? Oh, the hedges. While they were playing, Gwydren happened to pass by the great wrought-iron gates. To his surprise, he saw his sister on the other side, walking into the forest. He knew that they were not allowed to go out so he called to her, but she did not seem to hear. So he opened the gates and went after her.

  "Into the forest he ran, catching glimpses of her among the dark trees, but no matter how fast he went, he couldn't seem to catch up. No matter how loudly he called, she did not hear him. Further and further he went until he lost any sight of his sister, and he realized that he was lost.

  "Frightened, he sat down and cried. He knew no magic, no woods lore; the children had always been sheltered and kept safe within the walls. And he cried so long and hard that eventually he fell asleep beneath the trees.

  "He woke to a rough tongue licking his face: the family cat's. Gwydren was overjoyed and told the cat, 'If you can find me, you can find my sister. Please, lead the way.' Immediately the cat turned and started through the woods, and Gwydren followed.

  "They walked for a long time, until the trees thinned and Gwydren saw the gates of home—still open, still revealing the garden maze. Though it had grown dark he could see no lights within the tower, and the hedge-maze seemed strange. Threatening. Confused, he asked the cat, 'What has happened? Where is my sister?'

  "And the cat said, 'Within. But this is no longer your home, and the garden will not let you pass.'

  "Now, understand that though this cat had never spoken before, it was in an age where talking animals were not a strange thing—even those who did not shapechange. So the boy just said, 'But I must.'

  "'Then give me your strength, and I shall fight for you,' said the cat.

  "And the boy agreed.

  "Very delicately, the cat bit him, and through that pain he felt a sudden weakness as the cat grew to the size of a wolf. 'Come,' it said, and paced through the gates, and Gwydren followed.

  "As they navigated the garden, the hedges reached for them with thorny branches and the weeds and flowers with razor leaves—the sorceress's defenses—but the cat slashed them apart with sharp claws and pounced every creeping vine and saw-edged frill. When they finally reached the tower, they found the door open and the inside dark, with strange laughter echoing down from above, and the huge cat sat in the doorway and looked up the stairs and said, 'The magic of this place has been claimed by another. Child, you can not pass through these wards.'

  "'But I must,' said the boy.

  "'Then give me your will, and I shall break these wards.'

  "And the boy agreed.

  "And so the huge cat rubbed against his leg, and with each brush of fur he felt crackles of energy pass through and leave him, sending weariness through his heart. From waist-high, the cat grew to chest-high, a great shaggy mane forming around its head, and in a deeper growl it said, 'Come,' and started up the stairs. Gwydren followed.

  "Ahead of him the cat snarled and snapped at the air, sparks flying as spells gleamed and shattered with each swipe of its claws. Gwydren followed in a daze, drained and fascinated by the lights, and while they passed many closed doors on their way up the spiral, the one at the very top that led to his mother's sanctum was open. The laughter came clearer from here though the room was dark, and the boy could make out two voices: his sister's and a voice that sounded both strange and oddly familiar. He smelled blood. Despite his weariness, he wanted to rush right in, but the great cat barred his way.

  "'There is evil here, child,' the cat said in a solemn voice, 'and it is not an evil that you can fight. To go through this door now is to die.'

  "'But I must,' the boy said, for he knew that it was true. Though weak, though weary, he tried to push past the great cat, saying, 'If you will do nothing, I must at least try!'

  "And the great cat looked at him sadly and said, 'You would give everything?'

  "And the boy—for though frightened he was still the child of monster-hunters—said, 'Everything.'

  "'Then give me your future, and you shall wield my claws,' said the cat.

  "And the boy agreed.

  "The great cat rose and put its heavy paws on his shoulders, and he saw that its eyes were golden and deep as oceans. Slowly he sank into them, and the weight on his shoulders lifted. He flexed his hands and found them furred and bearing wicked claws, and he shook his head and felt the soft mane shift about his face. The last of the wards snapped before his golden glow. The cat was gone, but in his head it whispered, 'Come.' And Gwydren crossed the threshold.

  "His own light lifted the darkness from the room and he saw the blood everywhere—on the floor and walls and tables, the bookshelves and the chairs. He saw the bodies crumpled in the shadows: his parents, done in by trickery and ambush. And finally he saw the two figures before the cold hearth.

  "His sister stared at him with blank, terrified eyes. Her playmate stood and Gwydren saw that it wore his face, blood-smeared. 'It's another monster from the woods come to harm us, dear sister,' the not-Gwydren said, its eyes an unreflecting black.

  "'Who are you?' Gwydren demanded, 'and what have you done?' And the black-eyed boy laughed a harsh, monstrous laugh.

  "'I? I have done nothing,' it said. 'It was not I who fell for a phantasm and opened the gates. Not I that fled the sanctuary, breaking the seal of protection for those still within. Not I that discarded his skin bit by bit, too weak and frightened to face danger on his own. Mankind is too easy to trick—Is it not, my brother?' And Gwydren knew that it spoke to the cat within him. 'As for this mess, I am merely revisiting crime upon criminals, hunting the hunters. You are a sheltered pet; I have no interest in you beyond your face...and your bloodline.' It set its hand on the sister's shoulder and smiled a nasty smile.

  "Gwydren snarled, feeling the strength and rage of the lion within him. 'I have not been tricked,' he said. 'I have come to destroy you, monster.'

  "But the black-eyed boy laughed again and replied, 'You are the monster now. You have sold your face, your skin, and shall never reclaim it. Kill me and you kill her true brother.'

  "And Gwydren looked to the girl cowering before him, and to the blood-stained boy that wore his face, and he remembered what he had told the lion: Everything. I would give everything. He felt the lion-fangs in his own mouth as he opened it to speak.

  "'Then she shall have no brother.'

  "And with that, the lion ate him."

  Cob blinked in the darkness. "That's it? 'The lion ate him', the end?"

  "What do you want? 'The lion tore the monster-boy to pieces then carried his sister into the sunset, where they lived forever in peace and happiness'?"

  "Uh...is that what happened?"

  "I don't know. Ask Jasper."

  "You kicked him off the cart!"

  "So I did. Like I said, Cob, it's a story—a dramatic contortion of the truth. Maybe it's about taking action instead of letting the powers of the world ride you; maybe it's about pausing a moment to think before you do what seems brave and true. Maybe it doesn't mean anything. I don't know what really happened--"

  "It was real?"

  Morshoc made an irritated sound. "Ask Jasper, it's his piking story! I've talked too much already; you were supposed to sleep, you little brat."

  "Not my fault."

  "Well, do it. We've got a lot of travel ahead of us. I need to get us to Corvia so I can fix the Army's tampering on you and get the mark of the Light erased from your soul--"

  Cob sat up straight in the cart. "The what? I'm marked?"

  "You're a Phoenix Imperialist, a Light-follower. Of course you’re marked. It has its claws in your soul, and you'll go to the Imperial Light when you die unless I fix it."

  "And if I don't want it fixed?"

  Morshoc was silent for a moment, then said slowly, "Then we should...pleasantly part company after I free you from the Guardian. Or the Guardian from you. We can't risk you dying and drag
ging the Guardian into the Light."

  Says you, Cob thought, but he was in no rush to die. “Well…fine. Corvia, then. After that, I take my own path.”

  “Indeed. Now get some sleep like a good little boy.”

  Cob let out a breath and allowed himself to relax. His best option was obvious: get out of this craziness, get the Dark spirit away from his soul, then complete the pilgrimage. Be cleansed.

  All the rest of that—heresy, mythology, whatever it was—meant nothing. He knew who he was and what he wanted, and some fireside tales from a Corvish sorcerer would change nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  *****

  The Crimson pursuit walked their horses through the wisp-lit darkness, saddle-sore and footsore but bound to their duty.

  “Certainly they must sleep sometime,” said Lieutenant Sarovy to Hunter Trevere, who walked just far enough distant that the lieutenant’s horse did not conflict with his. “They have been on the road since last night.”

  “If we’d ridden after them immediately—“

  “That was not an option.”

  Trevere grunted but said nothing. They had already been through this argument on the debris-strewn street of Riftward, and for Trevere’s part it had devolved into a screaming fit and nearly into threats. Sarovy had seen his hand clamped around the dagger’s hilt, but despite the wildness of his eyes, he had finally controlled himself. It was a great relief; Sarovy had no illusions about fighting that blade.

  They had stayed in the town until sunset, doing their best to put right what had gone so catastrophically wrong in that last moment of the chase. It had been Sarovy’s decision. He wished they could have contacted the watchpost atop the Rift to warn them of the approaching escapees, but no mages were stationed there, and thus no scrys would be answered. Therefore, as they were already far behind their quarry, he had chosen to assist Riftward. Heretic side of the Rift or not, the townsfolk were Imperial citizens engaged in the activities of Imperial commerce, and they could not be left to fend for themselves. The small tax-collecting, load-inspecting Crimson outpost at the base of the Climb was not sufficient for disaster relief, dazed and shocked as they were by the sudden destruction.

  Fortunately, the walled-in street had contained most of the damage. There had been a handful of deaths, many injured and quite a few packbeasts that had to be put down, but if the caravan-hauling draft-hogs and heavy horses had been allowed to flee freely through the town, it could have been much worse. As it was, a few animals had been saved simply because they were too penned-in to struggle.

  Reimbursement claims would flood in from the merchants for their ruined goods soon. Sarovy doubted that the General would be pleased.

  “They don’t need sleep,” said Trevere finally. “Not the driver, anyway.”

  Sarovy frowned. “Do you know him?”

  No answer.

  “Hunter…”

  Trevere shot him a glare. He had never looked worse: pallid, tight-featured and tired, with an unsteady gleam in his eyes that Sarovy would not mistake for a wisp-reflection. The fact that he had cleaned up did nothing for it. At least beneath the black blood and the reek, he had seemed in control.

  He had spent their time in Riftward pacing tirelessly on the dirt ramp that led into the Climb. Base to top, a long pause to stare up the dark tunnel, then a reluctant march back to the bottom before trudging up again. Sarovy thought he had been trying to get up the nerve to chase on his own, but never managed.

  The girl-prisoner had just sat nearby, head slumped in her hands. She led her horse on the crack-side of the tunnel now, silent but keeping up well. Listening.

  Not that it mattered. They would either find their quarry along the Climb or surmount the Rift and request a portal home. Going any further would be impinging upon Gold territory. When they returned, the girl would be mindwashed or executed, the blood-price paid.

  “Hunter,” he prompted. “Do you know the driver?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you believe he needs no sleep?”

  “Has he slept yet?”

  A valid point, but Sarovy knew he was evading the question. “I saw wings,” he said instead, watching Trevere sidelong. “Did you?”

  The Hunter’s jaw tightened. “No.”

  “If you had, what would be a reason for him to have them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is this another of your manifesting spirits?”

  Trevere glowered into the darkness ahead.

  “What makes you think that we can take on two of them?” Sarovy persisted.

  “Shut up, just shut up,” the Hunter hissed. “Be a soldier and do as you’re told. Don’t ask idiot questions.”

  “I must.”

  “What’s the use?”

  “When they kill you, I’ll need to file a thorough report.”

  Someone behind them snorted. Sarovy thought it was the mage, Voorkei. Trevere only glared at him and said, “I’ll file my own cursed report.”

  “Will you? You’re not immortal.”

  A sneer curled the Hunter’s lip. “You have no idea what I am.”

  “Perhaps not. But you’re in bad shape, and now there are two of them.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you trying to sabotage us?”

  “Me? You’re the one who keeps insisting on delays!”

  “Can you assure me—truthfully—that encountering them right now would not be suicide?”

  Silence. Trevere looked away.

  “Tell me who he is.”

  “You don’t want to know, Lieutenant. You really don’t.”

  “Allow me to judge that for myself.”

  “No.” With a tug for the reins of his weary Sky horse, Trevere moved ahead with renewed vigor. “Trust me,” he said harshly, “knowing such things will do you no good. Stay out of this business as long as you can.”

  Sarovy’s brows creased. Nearby, the girl-prisoner gave a ragged sigh and forced herself to walk faster to keep up with the Hunter.

  That was a warning, he thought. A sincere one.

  What is going on, Hunter?

  Chapter 15 – Scorched Earth

  It was late the next morning when Morshoc finally said, “We’re close to Riftwatch.”

  Cob propped himself up and squinted forward. The gash on the western wall shed little light into the tunnel, the sky outside still overcast, but the bend up ahead was filled by a pool of radiance bright enough to hurt. It illuminated the beginning of the ramp that led into the open.

  Smothering a yawn, Cob leaned over to give Rian a nudge. The goblin had curled up in the corner of the cart after some late-night excursions; several gnawed-on grig wings remained clutched in his long-fingered hands. He stirred at Cob’s poke and yawned back, exposing nasty little needle teeth. Cob patted him on the head absently.

  “Gotta get back under the cart,” he said, “we’re almost at the top.”

  “Ys,” responded the goblin, and swung over the side of the cart with easy agility.

  Cob crossed his arms on the driver’s bench and rested his chin on them, watching slit-eyed as the pool of light drew closer. His dreams had returned to the cliffs of Kerrindryr and his boyhood friend Lerien, climbing toward the glow in the ice for once without sign of the black gauntlets. It made him hopeful that he could contain this darkness, this so-called Guardian. That its emergence in the tavern had been an anomaly, not a sign of things to come.

  Yet he still felt tired, as if the cart-ride served to drain his energy rather than refill it. He wondered if it was possible to rest too much.

  “I have travel papers for you,” said Morshoc. “Under the name ‘Aloyan Erosei’. Think you can remember that?”

  Cob snorted. Aloyan Erosei was the major hero of Kerrindrixi legend—the man who had drawn the Silver Ones out of seclusion to fight alongside the mountain kingdom long ages ago. “You’re well-prepared. Dangerous though, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. Most o
f the Empire can’t point to Kerrindryr on a map, let alone remember its mythology. They’re a self-centered sort of place.”

  “If you say.”

  “Anyway, I’ll present them and deal with the guards. You just keep quiet and look like a pilgrim.”

  “All right.”

  Onward, and the cart turned into the light. Cob closed his eyes against it, letting it soak through his eyelids for a long moment before opening them. The cart bumped up an increased grade and the stony ceiling of the tunnel peeled away to show pale sky.

  They emerged onto a tilted road and Cob glanced around, struck by the view. It was as if some ghostly finger had drawn a line in the sky beyond which no storm could pass. Clouds still brooded low and heavy over Illane’s westward expanse, but directly above the Rift and for a great distance east, the sky was clear as water. A fierce wind gusted up the Rift’s face, pulling at the weeds on the verge with hard hands, yet only a few yards away, the air around the cart was still.

  And cool, almost cold despite the bright sunshine. They were thousands of feet higher than they had been at nightfall and, free now of the closeness of the tunnel, the air tasted thin.

  Cob took a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity, and turned his attention east. The panorama that greeted him was not what he had expected of the Empire. No sparkling cities immediately evident, no tall palaces and temples, but forest: thick evergreen forest on either side of the sloping slate road, a few deciduous trees still flaring like firebrands among the pelt-like cover. To the southeast, the woodland dipped slowly into a distant, fog-shrouded valley—the Forest of Mists, home of the grey wraiths. To the northeast it ascended for miles, tier upon tier, toward the rugged white-capped peaks of the Khaeleokiel range. Clouds wreathed the tallest peaks, hiding their summits. Cob guessed one to be Aekhaelesgeria, the Corvishfolk’s sacred mountain.

  The road itself was rough, its paving-stones weathered and broken. The trees had been cut far back from it, a few stumps visible among the carpet of greyish moss and frost-browned weeds. Straight ahead, two squat towers hunched over the road, each flying a double banner: crimson claw on white over silver scythe on olive-green, sign of the Crimson Army and the protectorate of Illane; and golden wing on black over crossed arrows on maroon, sign of the Gold Army and the protectorate of Wyndon. All under the aegis of the Empire.