Easy for you to say. Cob peered into the bushes that they passed, looking for a sign of the red vines the Thorn wraith had become in his vision, but nothing caught his eye. After a while, he realized that Fiora had come closer and was trying to get his attention with hand-gestures; when he glanced at her, she pointed her thumb toward their backtrail, and Cob slowed to let Adram get ahead.
“So what do you think?” she said in a low voice.
Cob shrugged, watching Adram’s back. “Dunno. This what you expected?”
“I thought it’d be more wraithy. Like in the forest. All glowy and with people in robes, not skirts.”
“It’s not a skirt. Men wear those in the south. Padrastans and such.”
“Oh. Maybe it’s too hot for breeches,” Fiora said. “If it’s like this in the winter, it must be scorching in summer. Speaking of, can you hold this?” She shrugged out of her rucksack and offered it to him.
With a grunt, Cob slung it over one shoulder and tried not to watch sidelong as Fiora unbuckled her swordbelt and squirmed out of her borrowed over-dress. Her curly ponytail bobbed as she pulled free. Underneath, she wore a loose red blouse with a notched neckline and grey leggings; she had left the chainmail and shield in Turo. He handed the rucksack back and she crammed the dress away, then rebuckled her belt.
“It really is warm here,” she said. “I wonder why they don’t let the Turo folk come in for the winter.”
“Because if they wintered here, they would not be able to leave,” said Adram. Cob grimaced; apparently he had sharp ears. “It is a side-effect of the curse,” the man continued. “The Thorn only intentionally captures the souls of wraiths, but its essence is so strong that those who stay in this realm for too long are infused with it. They become Haarakash and can no longer stray far, lest they weaken and die.”
“That’s horrible!” said Fiora.
Adram glanced back, red eyes calm. “It is as it is. But if this troubles you, let us speak of other things. How fares the outside world?”
Fiora took a deep breath and launched into the gossip from Cantorin, and Cob grimaced. He did not want to hear about the depredations of the Empire. He watched the wilderness instead, picking out mammals now: rusty-colored hares, a few striped deer lipping at the hanging apples, a wide variety of burrowing rodents—even a few foxes resting in the sun, indifferent to all the prey around. Everything seemed calm. Not a hare flinched as the small party hiked past.
Eventually his spine started to unkink. He shrugged off his coat, and when the warmth urged him further, he unlaced the front of his tunic and rolled the sleeves up. That was as far as he would go in public.
A rosy corona ringed the sun where it peeked through the clouds, reminding Cob of how the sky through the Crimson Army’s ward used to look. Periodically Adram guided them off the path for shade and rest under wide-canopied trees, or to a stream to refresh their canteens. The water was sweet and the air hummed with insects, and Fiora picked berries that stained her fingers and lips dark purple. Cob objected at first, and even when Adram explained that nothing in Haaraka was poisonous, he still felt unease like a fist in his gut. But Fiora would not be dissuaded, so eventually he gave up.
Sometimes the footpath branched, sending another trail sidelong into the wilderness. Cob peered down them as they passed but though he caught glimpses of mossy roofs, they were always too far to make out details. Other steadings, he supposed.
It was late in the afternoon when they crested a ridge among the softly rolling lowlands and looked down upon a break in the thorny wild. Though the valley below was ringed with briar hedges and gnarled trees, the center held real civilization: a rectangular outline of narrow, red-roofed buildings surrounding a beautiful expanse of plazas, gardens, fountains and pavilions. People strolled the tiled courtyards in pairs and groups, tiny in the distance.
For a moment, Cob remembered the ogre-ruled past he had seen in Cantorin. The work was similar, but this seemed more graceful, more refined.
“Hopefully the Magistrate is in residence,” Adram said, starting down the incline. “It would be best to meet with him tonight.”
Cob trailed after, hushed by the grand simplicity of the place. The border-buildings stood three stories high but were not as they had seemed from afar; what looked like colored walls behind whitewashed columns were in fact long cascades of fabric that undulated slowly in the warm breeze. At the corners were real walls, like watchtowers, but most of the structure seemed to be made up of these shrouds. Adram led them to the steps, where the thorn-hedges broke like a wave against a white shore, and through a wooden arch that held the sheets away just enough to make an entry.
The floor of the sea-green chamber beyond was abstract mosaic, so intricate and fine that Cob worried about stepping on it. Adram did not pause, and so he followed, staring around. No furniture marred the expanse, and the high latticed arches that stretched between the interior columns made walking down the grand corridor feel like passing through a series of monolithic gates. The light that filtered through the flowing walls gave it a strange, submerged feeling. Cob felt small and rough and grubby, and hoped he was not tracking dirt on the tile.
Adram arrowed toward the nearest corner tower, its whitewashed wall holding a single door. A light knock received immediate response: the door swung inward to reveal a clerk in a high-collared blouse, close vest and sarong—all darker and more formal than Adram's attire—with tightly braided hair and an armful of scrolls.
“May I help you? Borderman,” she added after a glance to the embroidery on Adram’s vest. The two bowed to each other, then Adram gestured to Cob and Fiora.
“I bring outlanders associated with the Trifolder faith for an audience with the Magistrate and the High Necromancer,” he said. “We have made our way from the western border and require a place to rest, if we may.”
“The High Necromancer is in ceremony now,” said the clerk, stepping back from the doorway, “but the Magistrate is not occupied. Do come in, and I will tell him your request.”
Adram nodded and entered, and Cob shuffled after him into a whitewashed room hung with tapestries and lined with scroll-cubbies. Afternoon light spilled through tall windows that stood open to the breeze. Dividers of woven wood cut the room into offices, while a fragile-looking staircase spiraled up to the second floor. The clerk led them to the alcove surrounding the stairs, full of padded benches, then gave another bow and headed swiftly up.
Cob glanced sidelong to Adram. “It’s jus’ that easy to see your leader?”
“The Magistrate is not our leader,” said Adram. “He is a mediator and organizer and thus must be available to all. It is a voluntary position requiring much patience.”
“But you have a ruler, right?”
“We have other Magistrates for other areas of the realm, and they meet periodically, but the great authority belongs to the Thorn Protector. While it sleeps, no voice rises over the rest.”
Footsteps above drew their attention to the beckoning clerk. “The Magistrate will see you.”
They climbed to the third floor and found themselves in a mural-walled chamber set for conference, with a long low table surrounded by many floor-pillows. The Magistrate stood at the head of the table: a tall, lean man with hair like streaked onyx and a harder cast of features than Adram’s. He bore the marks of the Haarakash—the pallor, the blood-colored eyes—but seemed robust despite them. Over the traditional vest and sarong, he wore a patterned, belted robe, and around his neck hung a rope of blue ceramic beads. He bowed slightly over his fists as they entered, and said, “Welcome, outlanders. I am Magistrate Tarsem. Please make yourselves at home.” Glancing to Adram, he added, “You are the head of the Kemithos steading by the western border, yes?”
“Yes, Magistrate.”
“My sympathies for your wife’s veiling.”
Cob eyed his guide, curious but not wanting to intrude. After bowing his head respectfully to the Magistrate, Adram returned Cob’s gaze and said ca
lmly, “She is...in disagreement with her wraith. It is only temporary, but until they have come to an accord, they must stay veiled so that their conflict does not spill out to others. Our wraiths interact with each other through our eyes; if we can not see, they can not speak." Then he turned back to the Magistrate. "My thanks for your concern. May I introduce the outlanders Cob and Fiora. They have come to make a request of the High Necromancer.”
“She is overseeing a birth-rite and will not be available this evening,” said the Magistrate. “Perhaps a lesser necromancer?”
“I will let our guests tell their tale. It may be that we should wait for the best.”
The Magistrate nodded and looked to Cob.
Still standing, not feeling particularly comfortable here, Cob clasped his hands behind his back and pretended he was reporting to a superior. With luck, his explanation would not incite an attack. “Sir. I’ve got a spirit trapped inside of me, and I’ve been told it’s stuck there because of necromancy. Your folk are the only trustworthy necromancers I’ve heard of, so I’m here to ask for help, though the spirit’s no friend of yours.”
The Magistrate raised his brows. “A beast spirit, is it? We have no quarrel with them.”
“A bit bigger, sir. The Guardian, Aesangat.”
Adram blinked at him, and the Magistrate gave a grunt of surprise and narrowed his vermilion eyes. Cob clenched his hands behind his back. “Interesting,” said the Magistrate after a long moment. “And you came through the barrier without trouble?”
“We used a medallion from Turo. Went through jus’ fine.”
The Magistrate steepled his fingers, then sighed and gestured for Cob to sit. He did so reluctantly, and the Magistrate followed suit, with Fiora and Adram settling down after. “I would not expect a problem despite our history,” said the Magistrate. “Our High Necromancer is well-regarded and quite impartial. She will not allow any misplaced anger to impede her work, especially if the Thorn made no attempt to bar you.”
“Then we should await her, Magistrate?” said Adram.
“Yes, I think so. Any necromancy strong enough to hold a Great Spirit should be seen to by the utmost authority among us. But I had thought that necromancy was eradicated in the outside world. Young man, how have you come to be so bound? Were you a prisoner of Ylwenna?”
Cob frowned. That was the name Ilshenrir had given to the White Isle, the haelhene stronghold. “No. Though it's probably the same amount of trouble. See…” He paused, considering the problem of the Ravager and Morshoc, the conflict between the two halves of the Great Spirit. The Guardian was silent inside him, apparently indifferent to his airing of its dirty laundry, and he had come this far. There was no reason not to tell the whole tale.
He started again, and as he spoke, the Magistrate’s expression grew harder and harder to read.
*****
Late in the day, Dasira and Lark walked down into central Turo to visit the Shadow Folk. Dasira had no real interest in the trip, but had even less reason to stay in the stifling confines of the Damiels’ house, where she and Lark were the only ones of the party still in residence. Ilshenrir was in the woods, of course, but Arik had slunk off after Cob’s departure and had not been seen since.
Scant marks without Cob and already the group had disintegrated.
As if feeling the same malaise, Lark had stayed close since her return from the woods. Dasira was not sure why, but then she had little idea why Lark did anything. The girl who had hated and feared her as Darilan now stuck to her side like a burr, and she could only guess that it was because she was no longer a man.
Which was ridiculous. She was no less dangerous as Dasira. Some people could not see past the gender to the dagger and bracer, and though that was often an advantage, right now it just irritated her. She would much rather be alone.
Ilshenrir had given her a lot to think about.
As they walked the icy, angled streets, she kept an eye out for birds. Enkhaelen used them as spies, she knew, but thus far she had seen none. Around them, few Turonans were out; the sky was darkening and cooking smoke threaded the still air. Most shops had already closed. Fine snow sifted down from the low-hanging clouds, which loomed over the pitched roofs and motionless weathervanes like a pile of grey quilts.
The sense of insulation discomfited her. Around them, lamps glowed through shutters and bubbly glass windows, giving small glimpses into common life as they passed by ground-level houses. Unfamiliar worlds. Dasira had never lived in a house, never wanted to; when she was young, it had been what foreigners did, and now it was just impossible.
“What did he really say?” said Lark.
Dasira glanced at her sidelong. She had given the girl a warning for Vriene about a potential Imperial threat, telling her it was from Ilshenrir. Lark, for her part, had told Vriene it was from the Shadow Folk. This visit to the Shadow Folk was ostensibly to warn them about the threat and say the intelligence was from the Trifold, but Lark was not an indifferent messenger. The frown she turned on Dasira was one she would not have dared show Darilan.
Trying not to let it get her hackles up, Dasira said, “That someone else might be monitoring the barrier and feel the disturbance. That we should be ready, just in case.”
That was true. Ilshenrir had said a lot of things when he found her in the woods, including that she should keep the ear-stud despite her feverish desire to cut it off. He had spoken about backtracing it, whatever that meant, and about gleaning what knowledge they could from Enkhaelen’s rants. Finally, he had told her to stay in town where Enkhaelen apparently could not sense her, just in case he tried to get a portal fix on her.
She would rather be out there with the wraith, brainstorming ways to fight Enkhaelen, but she had to admit that being here where that bastard could neither eavesdrop nor teleport in on her was a relief. Trifold aura or not.
“But it’s not like the Imperials can get in there, right?” said Lark. “They’d need medallions too.”
Dasira shrugged. “Far as I know, we— The Imperials’ve had no contact with the Haarakash since the barrier went up. So there’s no reason to believe they can get in.”
“But they can figure out the entry-point?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Do you think there’s really someone watching?”
There’s always someone watching, she thought, scanning the rooftops again. Even if Enkhaelen could not sense her through the ear-stud, she was fairly certain he could fly a bird across the Trifold line. He was not bound by the same flaws as his creations.
So she just shrugged again.
Lark sighed. “You’re so unhelpful.”
“I warned you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but there’s more you’re not saying. Don’t deny it. You were the Crimson Hunter; that means the Crimson General trusted you implicitly. And that means that despite your low rank, you were important. You knew things. Shadow’s sake, you were assigned to Cob, the biggest danger to the Empire. You were in the middle of things and you’ve never been forthcoming about it. I want to know what you really think.”
Dasira raised a brow. You wouldn’t have talked to me like that before. But then, you were afraid of Darilan.
No. It’s not the skin that’s changed, it’s the situation. We’re not enemies now.
I think.
Aloud, she said, “I don’t know. All I can tell you is what I’d expect from experience, and right now I’d expect a Gold assault team. Pikes, this town has a Light temple.” She pointed out a six-winged spire in the distance, looming above the peaked roofs. “Vriene said it has an Imperial garrison too. So obviously there’s someone watching. The question is if they understand what they see and have reported it.”
Lark bit her lip, gaze flicking to the spire then back to the building façades she had been scanning. Most were thoroughly whitewashed but a few had red Trifolder marks on their doors and windowsills, and some others had black smudges like charcoal—Shadow Cult way-signs, Dasira gu
essed. “We’ve been here for days. If they’d noticed us, something would’ve happened by now.”
“They noticed us the moment we came in. You saw those guards at the wall.”
“Fiora dealt with them.”
“Maybe.”
“At least Cob looked like himself while he was sleepwalking. I remember how he used to look when the Guardian took over. Heh. There’d be no hiding that.”
Dasira’s mouth twisted into a near-smile. Their first encounters with the Guardian had been at the same time, during the disastrous fight at the Shadow tavern. She wondered if it had been as shocking for Lark as it had been for her. Knowing intellectually what Cob was had not helped at all.
“I think he knows about you,” said Lark.
“He does.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out when he gets back.”
“Hoi…we’re friends now, right?”
Dasira gave Lark an incredulous look, but the girl returned it soberly. “I covered for you,” she said, ticking points off on her fingers. “I helped you with the Corvish. I lent you Rian’s aid, I shot people who were after you, I got Ilshenrir to take you along, I claimed you as Shadow Folk, I got the eiyets to not eat you, I—“
“You’ve been helpful. I get it.”
“Just listen. You could’ve killed me in Bahlaer, or tortured me, or turned me over to the Imperials. Made me give up my people. Yes, you used that dagger on me, but it’s not like it hurt. You could’ve actually bound me but you just tricked me. You could’ve led me and the Corvish into a trap but you didn’t. You opened up to me—I still don’t know why. Maybe just because you were desperate. But you never hurt me, and I know you’re a nasty piece of work but you’ve never turned that on any of us. You climbed up the piking spire on your own because you knew you were the only one who could. You’ve been willing to sacrifice yourself for Cob this entire time, as well as watch our backs and fight your own people. So whether you agree or not, I think we’re friends. All right?”
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 41
