The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (3 page)

In their wake came five hulking figures, bristle-coated and rusty red.  They were thick in the chest and tightly muscled at the shoulders—not broad but dense—with short necks and wide cheeks and beady little eyes, and the way their noses sloped down to nearly mask their mouths made him think of—

Draft-hogs.

Light save me, they're draft-hog kin.

The realization nearly forced a laugh from him, but he swallowed it.  They looked mean, whatever they were, and unlike the wolves, they wore armor over their copious body-hair: layers of hardened leather stitched into crude cuirasses and greaves and brow-guards.  None wore a full helm, preferring to show off crests of quill-like hair, and between the war-paint and the thigh-thick clubs they carried, they were intimidating enough to back off an ogre.

Slinking along in their lee, almost unnoticed, came a single brindle-furred cat-man.

“
Honored one
,” called the woman-shaped wolf-rider in the lead, and it took Cob a moment to realize that she had yapped instead of spoken.  The Guardian seemed to automatically translate.  “
We bring to you representatives of the Gnashed Tusk tribe, and of the Shadewalker tribe, to join in war council for your cause.
”

Cob nodded slowly.  Though the wolves had offered simple hospitality, it was clear that they were as interested in his business as he was in the details of the 'firebird'—as they called Enkhaelen.  He didn't want a war, but he wasn't surprised that they did, considering how badly the Empire treated the people at its fringes.

“I welcome them,” he said, figuring he should be polite.  Then, with a mental prod for the Guardian, he said it again, hoping the spirit would translate it into wolf-speech.  What came from his mouth was a collection of growls and yips, startling despite his expectation.

Several of the man-shaped wolves huffed in amusement, and he flushed, wondering if he had misspoken.  The lead wolf inclined her head, though, and the big hog-folk grunted acknowledgment.  “
We will bring them to a place for their camp
,” the wolf said, and nudged her steed lightly, turning the whole group toward the thinner woods to the south.

Cob exhaled through his teeth as he watched them go.  A few of the hog-folk dragged sledges full of rolled leather and lumpy cloth—tent material perhaps—and the necessities of camp.  The cat-man had nothing but a satchel and a few strings of teeth.  His long tail flicked liquidly as he followed the others, unencumbered by even a stitch of clothing.

“Pike me,” murmured Lark, her tone an amazed counterpoint to his apprehension.  He glanced back to find her staring after them with an odd half-smile.

“So I guess we're havin' a war council,” he told his friends, and saw their faces change.  None looked happy.  Not Ilshenrir, still wearing his scars; not Dasira, nearly broken; not Arik, with ears laid back as he watched the other skinchangers pass.  Not Lark, despite her intrigue.  Not even Fiora, who wanted the Empire to burn.

“But that's not what we're after,” she said, looking up to him for confirmation.  “We know what happens to armies that assault the Palace.”

“I guess they don't.  We'll—I'll have to explain that.  If the rest of you wanna sit it out...”  He turned to Ilshenrir.  “Maybe you could take Dasira and go into the Grey?  If they've been after you all night, and they know what she is, I can't say that you'll be safe at a gathering.  And I can't leave you in a cave.”

“Or up a tree,” said Lark wryly.  “Maybe we should all wait for you in the Grey.  I'd love to eavesdrop on this, but it's not really our place, is it?”

Ilshenrir nodded his acceptance, but Dasira said, “Bad idea.”  Her voice was low and rough, unsteady, as if it took effort to piece the words together, but her eyes were pale knives beneath the fur hood.  “You need me out here.  I worked for him.  My knowledge...  I can't give it from the Grey.”

“Nor mine, I suppose,” said Ilshenrir faintly.  “Skinchangers do not use magic.  They will have no perspective on our enemy except as a spirit vessel.  You should make no decision without considering him as a whole: Ravager, necromancer, servant of Empire.”

Cob grimaced, imagining the wolves piling onto Ilshenrir in the middle of the council, or a hog-man rushing Dasira with one of those massive clubs.  But they were right; he couldn't just tuck them out of the way when they were inconvenient.  If that meant getting into a fight...

Not like I haven't done dumber things.

“All right, fine,” he said.  “But mind your tongues, yeah?  No startin' trouble.”

“Guardian, our very existences—“

“I know, I know.  Jus'...  Please.  Be polite.”

Ilshenrir nodded, and Cob glared at Dasira until she did too.

“If we're staying,” said Fiora, “maybe we should figure out what not to say.  Until now, the only skinchangers I've ever met were Arik and Sogan, and they don't seem...typical.”

Cob looked to Arik, who took no notice.  “Arik?” he tried after a moment.

The big skinchanger's ears twitched, and his gaze slid slowly to Cob.  His eyes looked washed-out, pupils wide, whole mien tight.  “I...do not think I can advise,” he said.  “They are not of my breed, and even if they were, I was not raised among wolves.  I do not...respond correctly.  You, the rest of you, they understand that you are not wolf and so are not to blame for your mistakes, but I am...aberrant in their eyes.  Unwelcome.”

“I thought your spirit connected you.”

“Yes, but it is like a parent.  It does not treat us all the same.”

Cob stared.  He had been aware of Arik's edginess since their first contact with the wolves, but had shrugged it off as nerves or shyness.  With his Guardian experience, he realized he should have known better.  A shared spirit did not mean a hive-mind, and Arik had never behaved quite like a wolf.  Evidently the other wolves took that as an insult.

“So maybe you should stay in the Grey,” he said, then sighed as the skinchanger shuddered.  “All right, never mind.  Jus'...maybe no one should say anythin' directly to the council.  Pikes, I don't even know if they'll speak Imperial, or if our plan will make them turn on us.”

“We still intend to go to Daecia City like lunatics, right?” said Lark.  “Because if so, I need to get in contact with my people before we reach the shadowless circle.  They still have that robe I won, and our travel papers.  You lot dragged me out of Turo too fast to grab them.”

“You haven't contacted 'em yet?”

“I was catching up on my sleep.  This hasn't exactly been a relaxing trip.”

“Well...  Yeah, you're right,” Cob said, squelching the urge to argue.  No matter how nervy he felt about the future, it wouldn't arrive any faster by yelling.  “If we're havin' this meeting tonight, then we'll probably move out tomorrow morning, so best to get all that done.”

“Does anyone have any coins?  I used all mine on the last shadow-path and the eiyets won't come for anything but sugar or shinies.”

The others shook their heads, then Dasira muttered, “I have some.  And the rest of your winnings.”  She fumbled awkwardly within her cocoon, then cursed as she dropped the sausage—and a moment later, the knife.  It stuck in the ground by her foot and she just stared at it.

“Let me help,” said Lark solicitously, gliding over to feel under the furs.  Though Dasira radiated pent-up fury, she permitted it.  “How'd you get my stuff, though?”

“You were blackout-drunk.  Who else was going to do it?”

“I wasn't that bad.”

“The only reason you didn't puke up your liver was that Vriene detoxified you.”

“I wasn't that bad!”

“Whatever you say.”

Watching them bicker, Cob felt a strange ache in his chest.  There was a curve to Dasira's lips that could almost be called a smile.  He had seen it on her face only once, but remembered it well from Darilan's.

Stop it
, he told himself. 
It doesn't matter.  We're not friends anymore.

But it still hurt, and when her grey eyes slanted toward him, they were guarded.  The ghostly smile vanished, her expression once again blank.

I can't run from this.  I have to face it.

“I think Ilshenrir should go with you, Lark.  And Fiora too,” he said, feeling obvious.  “In case the shadows give you trouble.  Nobody should go anywhere alone.”

Fiora gave him a brief narrow look, then said, “I was planning to, anyway.”  She tucked her arm in with Lark's and they turned toward the cave mouth, the wraith drifting after them apprehensively.

Left behind, Arik gazed at him with sad eyes.  Even if Cob had meant to send him away, that might have broken his resolve, but he'd never intended to; instead, he made scritchy fingers at the skinchanger and grinned as joy flashed over his face, followed by fur.  In a moment Arik was a wolf again, capering to Cob's side happily.

Settling down on the cold rock, Cob glanced sidelong to where Dasira still stood.  She seemed trembly beneath the furs, the utility knife twitching in her hand, gaze averted.

“So,” he said, then swallowed his next words as the massive wolf half-collapsed into his lap, quill-less belly bared for rubbing.  Cob complied, and for a long moment there was nothing but the twitch of paws and loud, contented wolf-groans.

Then Dasira echoed, “So.”

He barely knew where to start.  They hadn't spoken seriously since those few moments outside the caravan-shelter, where she had approached him all but frozen and given her unconditional surrender.  Her confession.

And now she'd been crippled for his sake.

“I appreciate your help,” he said, digging fingers into Arik's thick fur.  “You told me what to expect from Enkhaelen, and you did us no harm.  If he traced us through you, so what?  Who knows how many other ways he can do it?”

She slumped down beside him, still hidden in her furs.  “I could have done more.”

“Did you know about the manor?  What we were gonna find there?”

“No.”

“Then it's not your fault.  You almost died tryin' to kill him.  That's what matters to me.”

She snorted faintly.  “Didn't even get close.  I'm only alive because he never actually attacked me.  I just...got within his aura.  And now...”  The furs shifted in what might have been a shrug.  “I'm useless to you.”

“Y'don't have to fight.  That's never why I—“

“Cob,” she said harshly, “I'm barely alive.  The bracer can only do so much, and this body's brain is seriously damaged.  I can think clearly, speak clearly, move and breathe because of the bracer, but my balance, my reflexes and coordination...  They're all shot.  And I can't fix it.”

“That's why—“  Cob swallowed, remembering Darilan in the snow, the hilt of the broken sword sticking up from his eye-socket.  “That's why you had me stab you in the head?”

“Yes.  Kill or maim the brain and I can keep the body alive, but I can't use it.  I...”  She turned away, and when she spoke again, her voice was a rasp.  “I wanted to sleep.  To forget and be forgotten.  But Enkhaelen found me and pushed me into another body.  It's nothing I wanted; I never would have chased you again, but he said you were in danger.  That he had another agent with you.  And I couldn't just...let him have his way.”

“Another agent?”

“When I attacked him, he said he'd made it up, but...”  She shook her head.  “He's a habitual liar.  I thought it might be Arik, since he's a predator.  Or maybe Ilshenrir.  Enkhaelen could have killed him, but just scarred him a bit.  Suspicious.”

In his lap, the wolf stopped wiggling, ears cocked warily.  Cob sighed.  “I don't wanna think about that.  Maybe it's true, but to what end?  That piker's had plenty of chances to kill us, but he doesn't.  I don't understand.”

“He wants to use you.  For what, I don't know.”

“And you...  You're sure you can't repair yourself?”

“Not enough to be useful.  I'm made to steal bodies, not mend them.”

“You know I can't let you do that.”

She nodded and turned her face toward him, and he saw for the first time that her pupils were unequal.  The one on the damaged right side looked normal, but the left was blown wide.  “It's why I haven't.”

Part of him wanted to say,
No, I was wrong.  Do what you must.
  It might have been bigger than the part that said,
It's not right.

He almost wished he was still the boy who had fled the Crimson camp: that brick-headed idiot who felt decisively about everything.  He no longer knew where the lines were, or if they'd even been real.  Right and wrong, Light and Dark, wise and foolish...  How was he supposed to know which was which?

“There's nothin' else we can do?”

Dasira sighed.  “Rest, I guess.  Bodies mend themselves in time, so I may become stable.  But we've kicked the wasp's nest.  Enkhaelen, the Golds and Sapphires, the Akarridi wraiths...  We can't shelter here much longer.  And you have a mission.”

Cob grimaced.

“If I could stab someone with Serindas, it might help,” she added wryly.  “But no such luck.”

“What d'you mean?”

“You don't remember?  I've stabbed you I don't know how many times...”

His side twinged where the scar from the wraith-arrow still lingered.  Her red blade had entered him there, and he remembered it throbbing like a second heart, dragging at the blood in his veins as if determined to steal his life.  “It fed on me, yeah, but how does that—“