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

by Davis, H. Anthe

  Cob glanced at her warily. She touched his slave-brand with one gilded finger, the contact spreading heat along his skin. “We do not keep many slaves in the east,” she said. “But your term of service can be transferred. You have a talent that interests my king. I wonder if you would use it on his behalf.”

  “You’re askin’ me?” Cob said, trying to follow her words and not the slow path her finger drew on his arm.

  She leaned in, smiling. She seemed to radiate warmth. His chest felt tight, barely a breath sneaking out. “Of course. I would like this to be a friendly arrangement. Do you think we can be friends, Cob?”

  “I…yeah. Yes. But…”

  “Good.”

  She sat back and abruptly Cob could breathe again. His head buzzed. Pike you, bees, he thought, you’re not working right. He took a swig from the wine-glass to brace himself and it burned down his throat like honey and fire.

  He squinted at the drink. Maybe it wasn’t wine.

  “I would like to see you in our service,” Annia said. “Are you willing?”

  One part of him said yes! but he thought cold thoughts at it and tried to get his mind together. “What… What’m I supposed to do?”

  “Exactly what you did for the Crimsons.”

  His brows crinkled. “Work?”

  “Of course. We’ve seen your capabilities, Cob. Wouldn’t you rather use them in a comfortable, pleasurable place, where you can be properly rewarded for your efforts?”

  She leaned forward to rest her hand on his thigh, just below the towel, and the glass slid right out of his fingers. Her ruby lips pressed into a moue of amusement but he barely noticed; her eyes had him again, like a warm amber sea. An ache ran through his skull.

  “…yeah,” he said, no longer sure what he was answering.

  In a slither of red velvet, she was at his side, the fabric drawing fire all along his leg. Her hand stayed, but the other traced along his throat, to his chin. Her breath warmed his cheek. “You’re a good boy,” she said, each movement of her lips all but outlined on his skin. “You show restraint, and I like that. Let me give you a taste of our rewards.”

  She ran her fingers into his hair, leaving trails of heat, and he swallowed hard and felt a black flutter behind his eyes. Two tight knots of pressure burned on his forehead. She leaned close and the darkness drew in like blinders, even as his hand moved to her waist of its own accord, even as he thought No! at the sudden shiver of scales in the depths.

  Her mouth closed on his and the world went away.

  *****

  Darilan felt the Guardian’s aura and froze in mid-bite. He slanted a sideways look at his guard-escorts, busy flirting with the kitchen girls, and slowly set his bread down.

  Then he bolted for the door.

  The guards hollered and scrambled but he was already out, skimming past a startled maidservant and taking the hall in long strides. He heard a thud, heard her squawk and the guards curse, and then he swung around a corner out of sight.

  The sensation came from ahead and above. Upstairs, he thought, trying to remember the nearest staircase. Pikes. I knew this would happen. Light-cursed crazy bitch!

  Those crows had better find a way in.

  The corridors here were narrow, barely enough for two abreast, and the servants ducked into alcoves and open doorways when they saw him coming. He slid around those who did not, glad for once to be short and slight. Through an arch, he spotted a stairwell and swung that way.

  It spiraled up into the heights and he took the steps three at a time, gritting his teeth as his soft boots slid on the stone. Up, up, up, the Guardian’s aura still flaring like a black waterspout, its tendrils already sinking into him and making him ache around the numb spots. He hit the correct landing and his left hand started to twitch, the bracer clamping tight under his sleeve as if cowering.

  One door stood here. He slammed it open and stepped into a fancy bathing-room. Directly across, another door stood open, full of the sound and sight of a struggle.

  Darilan crossed the tiles in moments and stepped through. It was like plunging into the sea—a sudden weight and lassitude on his limbs, a struggle to breathe. He slowed as his arm spasmed and saw motion just in time to dodge a flung soldier. The man hit the open door and snapped it off its hinges.

  In the center of the room, one black hoof planted on a smashed table, stood the Guardian.

  It’s bigger, he thought. As it moved, its daggered antlers scraped plaster from the ceiling. Its back was to him, showing broad shoulders armored in bark and stone, black as night, and a thick mane cascading down its spine to a short deer-tail.

  For a moment all he could do was stare at the tail and think, Nothing on a Great Spirit should be that cute.

  Then the Guardian slammed another man to the ground with bone-snapping force, and Darilan shook off the thought. The aura crushed at him as he struggled forward, right hand on Serindas, his left refusing to respond. Three guards hung onto the spirit like children while one slapped ineffectually with his sword. Another swipe from the Guardian and that man went flying.

  There was no sign of crows.

  “Cob!” Darilan barked through the chorus of curses. “Stop it!”

  The Guardian’s head turned. One flat black eye fixed on Darilan and his breath went away. His knees unhinged. He hit the floor, the world greying at the edges.

  Then the Guardian shook itself. Plaster-dust spilled down from a new rip in the ceiling. The stone rose from Darilan’s chest and he gasped for air as the Guardian gripped the base of one antler, its shoulders shaking. A cloud of blackness bloomed from its form, then the black armor vanished and Cob collapsed under the weight of the grappling soldiers.

  Darilan sprang to his feet, dizzy, every nerve burning with returned sensation. He saw a guard with a sword up, aiming at Cob through the struggling pile, and lunged instinctively. The sword’s point skimmed the back of his doublet as he shoulder-checked the man’s armored chest, and they both went down. A twist, a wrench, and Darilan was on top with Serindas at the guard’s throat. The blade throbbed with vicious hunger.

  “Enough!” said Annia in a voice that drove straight through his head.

  Against his will, his gaze turned to her. The dagger trembled in his hand, desperate for blood but unable to control him. Only now did he register the poisoned scent that permeated the room, as if a beehive had been crushed and smeared across the floor, occupants and all.

  Annia struggled upright, wiping at the blood that dripped from her lip. Her gown was torn, her hair in disarray, and the teardrop pendant no longer hung about her neck. Its illusion gone, she was revealed in her true form: the glossy marbled skin, the claws, the kittenish fangs that flashed when she snarled, the eyes wide honeycombed circles without pupil or white. She still wore the shape of a woman but her feet had split into golden hooks, and she balanced on them as if wearing invisible heels.

  Beneath each claw hid a stinger, Darilan knew, and another beneath her tongue. The blood from her split lip and scratched arms was red but poisonous. Her skin held intoxicants that she spread by touch.

  Lagalaina, her kind were called.

  “Take him to the warded cell,” she said, her voice thick with the winglike thrum of her power. It tweaked at Darilan like puppet-strings and he clenched his hand tighter on Serindas, relishing the blade’s hunger for once as it counteracted the lagalaina’s pull. His bracer was still too numb to help, and though his mind could not be controlled, his flesh—the human part--could.

  The guards heaved to their feet immediately, dragging Cob up. The one under Darilan lurched and rather than cut his throat, Darilan slid off and rose unsteadily. Quick as a whip, Serindas forced his hand after the man’s back.

  “You,” Annia snarled. “You stay still.”

  Darilan’s legs locked. Serindas yanked like a hound on a leash but could drag him no further. Seething, Darilan watched over the guards’ shoulders as they hauled Cob out the door, the young man shaking his head
as if trying to wake up. Steps receded across the tile, then Darilan heard the door to the stairwell slam. A moment later, the heavy, cloying scent eased and his body returned to his control.

  Serindas wiggled in his grip and he struggled to slide it into its sheath. It caught on the other object he had hidden there, then finally went in. Breathing hard from anger and adrenaline, he looked to Annia as she sank onto the divan and covered her face with her hands.

  “What were you thinking?” he snapped.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, only a faint flutter in her suddenly sodden voice. “Maybe that he wasn’t dangerous!”

  “Did I ever say that?”

  “You like him! You’re protecting him!”

  “He’s spirit-ridden, Annia. It’s not his fault. You tried to thrall him, didn’t you.”

  “No.” She sniffled and let her hands fall, glowering at him with her wet, faceted eyes. “I’m not stupid. I was just being nice.”

  “Were you in his lap yet?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tongue in his mouth?”

  She gave him a petulant look that he knew was a yes. White-hot fury lanced through him. Letting it drive him forward, he shoved her down on the divan, one hand on her neck, one wrenching her arm aside, and forced his knee between her thighs. Her eyes flew wide, and he leaned down close enough to feel her frightened breath, feel her shaking beneath him, stricken by memory.

  “Bitch,” he hissed. “You just couldn’t resist. So why shouldn’t I retaliate?”

  “You wouldn’t,” she said, her voice a tremor.

  “I have before.”

  “They’ve made you one of them, those men.”

  Better than what you’ve become, he wanted to say. The fury still pulsed through him, and on his arm the bracer flexed, ready to fill him with the antidote to her poisons.

  But he saw himself in the aftermath of this, perhaps cinching himself up again, the look on his face the same as theirs had been. Smug, satisfied.

  He pushed away. Turned away, knowing that he could not stay close and not hurt her. His gaze traveled the room and fixed on a glitter of trinkets, a bedside table appreciably distant, and he stalked there to put space and furniture between them and dim the sound of her quiet sobs.

  Jewelry spilled across the table there, draped from an open box. Men’s rings, chains of office, little gloating trophies of a royal mistress. Three different signets. A wide collection of Army pins.

  Among them, two anomalies. A crystalline arrowhead on a leather cord, and an old bronze band.

  “Don’t touch my things!” Annia wailed, but he ignored her. The sight of the arrowhead lit his temper again. He picked it up, feeling its familiar chill. He remembered watching them dig it out of Cob’s side.

  What am I doing? he thought. I had him right there, fresh out of the Guardian state and pinned down by soldiers. And what did I do? I tackled the one who was about to stab him.

  This isn’t working. Curse the crows, where were they?

  He glanced back and saw that Annia was still crying, her hands over her face. He flipped the cord over his head and tucked the arrowhead down his undershirt, then reached for the band. An unpleasant fire ran up his fingers.

  Trifolder work, he thought. Feh. But he took it anyway.

  “You stole things from him while he was comatose,” he said as he tucked the band up his right sleeve. It fit loosely between the undershirt and the doublet and only burned a little. “Were you already planning to mount him?”

  A brief murmur, then, “Oh, like you’re perfect, you body-switching bastard. He was interesting. I do as I please.”

  Darilan looked back again, frowning. She still had her hands to her face but she sounded fine now. Sour. He caught another murmur and the glint of light off one of her rings--only it was more than light, it was activation, like the pin he had worn in the Bahlaer tavern.

  He stepped toward her just as Gold-robed figures materialized among the splinters, already casting.

  Arcane webs bound his arms before he could touch Serindas. They yanked him forward, his heels skimming the rug, then forced him down on his knees by the divan. He struggled and snarled in their encasement and saw the strands nearest the Trifold band spark and fray, but it was not enough. The doors to the outer suite swung open to disgorge more thrall guards.

  Rising, Annia smoothed her velvet dress and looked down at Darilan with a curled lip. “You tried to trick me,” she said coldly. “And then you tried-- I won’t have this. Whatever he is, he’s not what you say. I retract all of my offers. I will present both of you to the Emperor to do with as he pleases. Boys, take his weapon. Watchmagus, I want a portal to the Imperial Palace ready within the mark.”

  The guards hauled him up, and he tried to spit but Annia clamped a hand over his mouth. The intoxicants made his skin tingle, and he breathed in unintentionally and felt her power clench tighter. His belt unsnapped and Serindas’ hunger left him.

  On his left arm, the bracer stirred to life to combat the toxins, but it was too late. He could only kick and curse as the guards dragged him away.

  Chapter 24 – The Draining Darkness

  Cob thought, What have I done? You told me you couldn’t control me!

  The Guardian did not answer. He felt its weight receding, as if sliding back down the black well from which it had come, but his head still hurt. The memory of what had just happened replayed itself through a filter of smoky glass.

  Her mouth, then the disjunction. Watching through a black window as his hands came up to yank the pendant off and shove her away. And then—

  He did not want to think about it—the skin-crawling change in her. Bees indeed.

  “Put your feet down and walk,” a guard snarled in his ear, and he obeyed automatically. They had half-dragged, half-carried him out but it was more difficult on the stairs, and he stumbled along as they corkscrewed down.

  A landing. A corridor of surprised-looking servants. Around a corner and into another hall, with plastered walls covered in arcane scrawl and doors of inlaid wood, then down to the end and through a door of etched metal that lit fiery sparks in his nerves. The circular chamber beyond held a small domed cell in its center, surrounded by concentric rings of sigils that glowed with faint golden light.

  A tall female mage in a Gold Army robe awaited them, and beckoned as the soldiers hesitated. “I’ve lowered the wards,” she said. “You can pass through. Be mindful of the other prisoner when you put him in.”

  Other prisoner? Cob thought as they hauled him forward. The domed cell had a door made of bars, through which he glimpsed movement. The lady-mage moved ahead to open it as the guards hauled Cob across the rings of sigils. A shove, a boot to the backside, and he stumbled into the cell, nearly clipping his skull on the low arch.

  The door slammed shut behind him, and the lock clicked.

  Bootsteps retreated, then the golden light of the sigils flared brighter, illuminating the cell through the bars. Half-covered by Cob’s shadow, another man stared up at him, arms raised defensively.

  Cob blinked and backed up, dropping into a crouch. The cell was small—not high enough for him to stand straight and barely wide enough for him to lay down—but there was enough space that they could stay away from each other, if they took care.

  With the light coming in over his shoulder, he saw his cell-mate clearly enough: a Wynd in his late thirties, dishwater-blond and haggard, his stubbled face drawn with fear. Bandages shrouded his painfully crooked hands and bruises mottled his chest and left side. His build showed no soldier’s muscle, but neither did he have the indolent fleshiness of the noble or upper merchant classes; soft but not flabby. He wore loose breeches and a silver collar, nothing more.

  The door of the outer chamber slammed shut, followed by a bell-like tone that made the concentric circles ripple then brighten further. The Wynd grimaced, then exhaled a ragged sigh. “Who are you?” he said hoarsely. “You’re not collared. Not a mage?”

&n
bsp; Cob blinked slowly. His head was swimming. “No. ‘M jus’ a normal person. Name’s Cob.”

  “A normal person?” The Wynd squinted. “Why would they put you in arcane containment?”

  Because I have a monster inside of me, Cob thought, but said instead, “Who’re you?”

  The man lowered his arms slightly, though the anxiety on his face did not fade. “Warder Geraad Iskaen, in service to Count Varen. If you’re not a mage, then what are you doing here?”

  With a shrug, Cob shifted aside from the door and set his back to the smooth curved wall, drawing his legs up for some privacy. He hated being naked. It wasn’t right. Geraad watched him as he got settled, then sat back suddenly with a look of alarm.

  “You’re the one from the road,” he said. “The bleeding one.”

  Cob frowned at him. “Y’know me?”

  “With the winged monster and the dead horse. The man they dragged away.” Geraad’s eyes went round. “You survived that?”

  Cob nodded slowly, though he was barely able to comprehend it himself. He did not want to think about grappling with Morshoc or the bloody wounds that had bloomed from his own flesh, but it occurred to him suddenly that those had not been new injuries. The bleeding nose, the cracked jaw, the busted knuckles and the sting of welts on his back, the fiery sensation in his shoulder—all were from the past, like Morshoc had dredged up and torn open his old scars.

  The ones that had appeared on his arms and belly corresponded to the thick mats of blood that had been on his clothing after the tavern fight. He grimaced, but the skin there was whole as if it had never been cut. He could even breathe through his oft-broken nose—though when he touched it, it felt as lumpy as ever, and likewise his slave-brand remained.

  He looked up to Geraad again, pondering. “Y’were with the soldiers. The mage in green?”

  “Yes. The others were Count Varen’s men. We were going to investigate the loss of contact with the Rift beacon. Did you—“

  “Why’re you in here?” Cob said quickly, not wanting to think about that. “Aren’t you on their side?”