Ally: A Dark Fantasy Novel (On the Bones of Gods Book 3)

by K. Eason

  Snow smiled. “These are my friends, yeah? Aneki, Fridis, this is Kellehn. And those are the citizens of Cardik.”

  There were shadows leaking out of the doorways. Men and women separated themselves from the darkness and lined up in the streets. Their anger hung in the air, tainted and sour on the back of Snow’s tongue.

  One of the Talir shouted, noticing. The alarm spread, the same word repeated. She supposed it meant ghost. Or maybe we’re fucked.

  Kellehn whipped around. “You said—”

  “That I can protect you from the dead. Didn’t say I would.”

  He spat something at her in Taliri. Guess it meant traitor, liar, from the tone and the look on his face. Then he rushed at her, ripping his blade out of its sheath. Fast, yeah, he was that, but she was expecting him.

  She sidestepped. Drew her seax and sliced a line across his body as he rushed past. Nothing lethal, no. Shallow. Messy. Painful. Kellehn swore and skipped a step. Caught balance and came around, blade raised for another strike.

  Snow shook the blood off her seax. “Aneki. Got a present for you.”

  But it was Fridis who shouldered Snow aside and walked straight into Kellehn’s sword. She pushed herself up the blade until she could put both hands on his shoulders. Then she smiled into his face.

  He screamed at what he saw there.

  A gust of perfume, of something thick and dark and sour. A flicker of color at the edge of her vision. Logi snarled and pressed hard against her knee. She turned to face Aneki, kept the seax between them. Fuck and damn, don’t look too closely—at teeth not quite square anymore, and eyes filled with blood. Watch the hands. The claws.

  Aneki’s thick voice, like honey and rope: “You kept your word, Snow. We’ll keep ours. But don’t linger out here, yeah? It’s not safe.”

  * * *

  Veiko was still in the ghost roads when Snow got back to Still Waters. It was just his body in residence, stretched on the pallet. She checked his breathing. Touched the pulse at his throat. Traced the topography of his face. Hot, dear Laughing God. You could fry a flatcake on the man. But when he came back, he’d be all chill and shivers.

  She had practice with this. Had sat vigil like this for him before, in this room, with him on that very damn pallet. Last winter, while he learned the trick of crossing into the otherworld. When it had been her poisons that sent his spirit over.

  Damn near killing you, yeah? That’s what I’m doing.

  She had worried, every time, that she might send him too far. He hadn’t worried. He’d said she could call him back, that she had that power.

  Well. Trust the man to know his own limits now, since he’d learned the trick of crossing without her help. She busied herself in the meantime. Stoked the firedog. Filled a pitcher from the pump in the kitchen. Rinsed a cup and set it beside the pitcher in the center of the table, just so.

  And then she waited. Sat on the bench beside the table and smoked her way through the pouch of jenja. She rolled a stick first. Touched it to the coals in the firedog if she was feeling mundane; called a flame up if she felt like testing her conjuring. She alternated. And slowly, the room collected a haze of jenja smoke like fog off the godsrotted river, until even Logi lifted his head and oofed a protest.

  So, then it was open the shutters, never mind the storm, never mind the avatar howling out there like a cat in a trap, trust Sian was fully occupied right now, and not looking for stray lights in windows. Snow hadn’t known a dragon could make that noise, like Briel’s hiss and keen melted together and spun out. And then there were the wingbeats, a separate roar under the thunder, and lightning knifing the sky to show where the damned creature was. She felt the backwash of its panic-sending, meant to flush out all prey; felt its rage, too, in the ozone shiver of lightning and the sudden, gut-rattling thunder.

  She leaned against the wall and waited, blowing smoke out the shutters. She had her own defenses. She conjured look away on the window, on the building, wrapped Still Waters in haze and dust and disinterest. And she waited, while the storm-blue afternoon crawled into steel twilight. The avatar gave up her tantrum eventually. Beat south and east, toward the forest, dragging the storm behind her.

  Toward Illharek, of course, which was days away, even if the avatar flew without stopping. There was no point in fretting over it. Dekklis was as warned as she could be already. And if Veiko hadn’t come back by midnight, then Dekklis would have to handle the dragon herself. Snow wouldn’t get there before the avatar without his help and the ghost roads.

  Without Veiko, hell, she wouldn’t even try. Illharek could burn to ash for all she cared.

  The rain sputtered to a drizzle. The storm sulked away, muttering to itself. A wet breeze licked through the room, and the air smelled like hot iron now instead of smoke. Even Logi stopped pacing—he hated the storms, growled and muttered and walked the perimeter throughout—and settled under the table.

  Snow went and sat on the hearth. Pulled her knees up and curved her back toward the firedog. Set her seax on the table, easy reach, and lit one of her last three sticks of jenja. Listened to Logi licking his paws and to Veiko’s breathing—a little faster now, as if he were running. She watched the sweat bead on his forehead. Watched the pulse beat in his throat. Did not pray, no, not even the tiniest wish.

  His eyes opened. Sharp inbreath, sharper exhale. His eyes rolled left. Right. He pushed himself up to sitting. Braced both arms on the pallet and looked around the room, feral and foreign and not entirely himself. He stiffened when he saw her. His eyes narrowed.

  “Veiko.” Softly, gently, as if to a wild thing: “Veiko Nyrikki. Come back.”

  He frowned. Looked down at his hands. Curled the fingers, one after the other. Forgot to breathe and then remembered, sudden hitch and gasp. One steady, then two, then,

  “Yes,” like dust. He winced.

  She brought the water to him. Held it while he negotiated with his hands for control. She helped him take the first sip, the second. Let him try for himself on the third. A little water escaped when his hands shook. But not much.

  He drank, and she sat beside him. Patient, quiet, while the jenja burned itself out on the table.

  And finally, when the cup was empty, when his hands were obedient and still in his lap, she asked, “I know what you’ll say, but—you all right?”

  “Yes.” His eyes drifted. “Taru tried to kill me. A test, she said. One that a noidghe must pass.”

  “She—fuck and damn. I reckon you passed, then?”

  “Yes.”

  She counted five. Ten. Two dozen. Veiko didn’t elaborate. Veiko didn’t do much at all except stare at the bottom of the cup like it was talking to him. He was noidghe. Maybe it was.

  She cleared her throat. “You were gone a long time. I was beginning to wonder if I needed to call you back. But you were still breathing, so I didn’t.”

  Now he looked at her. His witchfire eyes sharpened as he spoke, as if the words tied him more tightly to his flesh. “I found a wurm. You were right. To kill it, you must put sharp metal into the soft parts. But first, you must sing past its fear-sending. And then you must get it out of the sky.”

  Snow glanced at the window. “If I wanted Briel down, I’d use wind. Maybe lightning. But the avatar owns the storm.”

  “No wind,” said Veiko. “Stillness. A wurm cannot fly in dead air.”

  Snow considered. Made sense, yeah, Briel relied on gliding, if the air was still, and on leaping from perch to perch. A dragon was too big to use that trick. Get it on the ground, legion troops might have a chance against it.

  “Conjuring can do something about the wind. Maybe not mine, but there’s an Academy full of adepts. We just need to get there, yeah? Quick.”

  Veiko seemed to remember, then, where she’d been. He stiffened. Turned a narrow stare on her, sharp as any axe. “What happened?”

  “I’m fine.” She hung a crooked smile on her lips. “Logi’s fine too.”

  “I was not worried for hi
m. He is sensible.”

  “Right. Thanks. Maybe Logi will get you more water, yeah?”

  “Tell me.”

  She threaded her fingers together and studied her knuckles. “Kellehn said—and maybe it’s toadshit—that he told the truth, that Tal’Shik’s worship is a matter of force, rather than choice, among some of the Taliri. When Ehkla died, some of his tribe tried to defect. The avatar—Sian—got them back. He said he was hoping we’d kill the avatar, but really—Tal’Shik wants you. So, if the avatar killed us, then he thought he might make a new bargain.”

  “Mm.” Veiko shifted his grip to the cup. Gripped his knuckles white. “And Kellehn is dead now?”

  “Last I saw, Fridis was at him. I’m guessing she finished the job. And the avatar’s gone.” Snow jerked her chin at the shutters. “She flew off southeast, toward Illharek. I thought, when you took so long—maybe Tal’Shik had gone after you.”

  He put the cup aside. Touched the back of her hand. Traced the bones as if she were feather and glass. “The wurm tried to, as you say, get me. But it was only a wurm, not Tal’Shik, and it failed. And once I bested it, it told me what I wanted to know.” His eyes glinted, one part amusement and two parts bitter steel. “Taru was my guide to its lair. I thought then that she was sorry for testing me. That she wanted to make amends for it. I am a fool, Snowdenaelikk. Taru was not sorry for testing me. She sang songs of hiding, and she taught them to me, so that we could approach the wurm undetected. I think she was hiding me from Tal’Shik.”

  “Then I forgive Taru for trying to kill you at all. Wait,” as he began to pull his legs under him. “The hell do you think you’re going?”

  He stared at her hand in the middle of his chest. Leaned against it and frowned when it did not move. “I forget your strength.”

  “You forget your toadfucked wits, yeah? You think we’re going to chase down that flying snake right now? Illharek’s days away, even if the dragon can fly without stopping, which I reckon she can’t. I’m also betting she’s going to collect the rest of her people. That’s a lot of forest she’s got to cover. And we could get lucky. Maybe she’ll go back north and leave us the hell alone.”

  “She will not.”

  “Oh, fine. But you’re in no condition to go marching to Illharek right now.”

  “One does not march on the ghost roads.”

  “One does not open the ghost roads when one can’t stand up, either. Morning’s soon enough.”

  Long stare, metal-cool. “Morning is many hours away.”

  “Well. Then we’ll have to find something to do.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It would be close to dawn by now, Above. That time between moonset and the first pinking in the east. Dekklis had no idea what the moon phase was. Waning crescent, maybe. She pictured that sinking down through the stars. Imagined the cool air and the first round of day birds, celebrating the night’s survival.

  “First Legate?”

  Down here, Below, it was all witchfire and torchlight. It was firedog against the permanent stone chill, and still she was never warm. No insects. No birds. Only the godsrotted svartjagr trading howls over the Arch. Legion maneuvers outside, some mule-voiced optio shouting commands. Enough to make her miss the howling of wolves.

  Dekklis winced. Rubbed her temples. Felt like broken glass in her skull. Constant grind that turned stabbing sometimes. That could be Briel’s disapproval, if she’d overheard Dek’s assessment of svartjagr. More likely, it was plain fatigue. She had slept only in snatches since Rurik’s death. Two full days, by however one reckoned the time. Two risings and settings of the sun. Two thirty-mark candles burned to stubs in their holders.

  Two days of messages running through the Tiers among the Reform-minded Houses, K’Hess and K’Hari leading that particular political charge, while Dekklis quietly went through her garrison roster, glad that conservative Houses tended to keep their daughters in politics and not send them to the legions. Stratka, the exception, had another in the First of some rank, but she had lately come down with

  bad fish

  some sort of malady, along with her closest (and most dangerous) associates. She might recover, the chirurgeons said, but those chirurgeons took orders from Belaery and would say what she wanted.

  Oh, foremothers. Snow would laugh so very hard.

  “First Legate?”

  This wasn’t Pyatta’s voice. This was—Dek squinted at the doorway. This was one of the troopers from the Sixth. A woman Ville had recommended for promotion to be his second, Ville having jumped ranks of a sudden, acquiring a commission and becoming First Spear in a day. A scandal, that, and not the first Dek meant to cause, nor the biggest. This woman—what was her name?—was another. Northerner, lowborn, newly promoted.

  Dekklis tried to look interested. “Optio. You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, First Legate.” The woman saluted. “Optio Salis, reporting as ordered.”

  Salis. So, that was her name. Dekklis still couldn’t summon any personal memories. She tipped her head sideways. Looked at the newcomer through half-lidded eyes. A veteran, obviously. Scarred hands. Scarred face. Ville had called her competent and fearless. Dekklis believed that. The woman didn’t look smart enough for cowardice.

  “Thank you, Optio.”

  Salis blinked. “First Tribune Neela said you’d have something for me? Some kind of orders,” in a rush, when Dekklis frowned. “Not for me, but for her.”

  Ah. Yes. Dekklis pushed through the scrolls on the desk. Motherless waste, to write orders on parchment. Most of the time, it was wax tablets. But these were official orders, and so there was parchment and Academy-made, official Illhari ink, the kind that wouldn’t fade. A list of names, a list of Houses.

  If Ville’s promotion was a scandal, then the contents of this scroll were a declaration of war, and not half as quiet as the one Snow had wanted to wage. Dekklis flattened the scroll on the desk. Read the names one last time.

  Toer. Stratka. Vesh. V’Lak.

  And others, dear foremothers. This list comprised a third of the Senate. A swath of the old Houses. And this would be only the first round of arrests. Two days compiling this list, two days in meetings with loyal Senators and second daughters and proconsuls. Two days with Istel hovering close, in case one of the summoned women turned godsworn. And now those meetings were over. Now the list was assembled, and Istel had said he would take himself off for a rest.

  Istel had lied. Briel sent a different story: of Istel on the Riverwalk, heading for the Abattoir, and then a tangle of shadow that Briel couldn’t see through. So, Dekklis supposed that Istel was about the God’s business now. Keeping order, on her command, making certain no riots began in the Suburba—if Istel took her commands anymore. Hell if she knew, heartbeat to heartbeat, if the God or Istel was stronger.

  Optio Salis was still waiting. She was more patient than Pyatta. Probably convinced her First Legate was a scatter-wit.

  “I served with K’Hess Kenjak,” Salis ventured suddenly. “And I knew Teslin and Barkett. I just want to say—I’m proud to serve you, too, First Legate.”

  “Thank you.” Dekklis snapped the scroll shut. Leaned across the desk and winced as her hips reminded her just how long she’d been sitting there. Hell and damn, all she could do to hold herself straight, while Salis came and took the scroll and bowed and left again.

  Then she let herself slump, and cast a wistful eye at the pot on the firedog. Tea hadn’t done any good since her last meal—supper, she thought, maybe—and she’d had half a dozen pots since.

  She made herself get up, fill the kettle, and set it on the firedog to boil. Made herself go to the window and lean on the ledge. The First Legate had a fine view from her window. Rank, privilege, all of that. A fine vista of practice yards and barracks and the garrison gates. And over those, the Tiers. The Houses. The Academy and the Arch and, if she stretched and strained, even the motherless Suburba. It was Illharek out her window. That which she was oathbound to defe
nd. And here she’d set allied heretics loose in the Suburba to combat the enemy heretics loose in the Tiers. Poor Illharek, rotting from the inside, godsworn at war again. As if the Purge had never even happened.

  They would name her dictator tomorrow in the Senate. Senator K’Hess would propose it; Senator K’Hari would second it. Then there would be a vote, and the proposal would pass. K’Hess and K’Hari were sure of the votes. The godsworn faction was still a minority, and the smaller Houses, most of whom had risen to power after the Purge, were already nervous. Fear led to paralysis much of the time; Dek hoped, and K’Hess and K’Hari insisted, that the fear would lead to votes in their favor.

  It wouldn’t be pretty, that vote. But there would not be a repeat of the spring’s violence, and no repeat offer of amnesty. She would have adepts on the plaza, and Praefecta K’Hari Dannike with half an Illhari cohort to keep the peace.

  To make arrests.

  Because her first act as Dictator Szanys would be to initiate a set of proscriptions. By then, First Tribune Neela would have her people in place in the Tiers. By then, the Academy would have their cells prepared for any surviving godsworn. The first Purge had been a matter of careful conspiracy, planning, strategy on the front end. So would this one be.

  And after. Dekklis rifled through the stacks of old scrolls. Court records from the first Purge. Sentences. Depositions and confessions. And a great many orders of execution which were important, Belaery said, because disposing of godsworn

  is a tricky thing, First Legate. One must take special care

  required special, temporary legislation. The sort only a Dictator could approve. They had to get the wording just right.

  Here were a dozen such writs, awaiting only the Dictator’s seal. A perfect match to the names Salis had just taken away on that list. And there would be more names, oh yes, after tomorrow. The scribes would be busy.

  And the executioners.

  Hollow bang, like an axe on the block—except no. Dekklis shook her head and blinked raw eyelids. No bang. No executioners or axes. Just steam and a howling kettle. She’d dozed off on the motherless wall, standing up. Hell and damn, she hadn’t done that since Rurik had sent the scouts out on long-range recon two winters before.