The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (36 page)

“Didn't want an army,” Cob muttered.  “Though it'd probably be more effective than any of the others on offer.”

“Doubtful.  Haelhene are fractious under the best conditions.”

“I jus', y'know...  It would be nice to not have to kill the ones that come after us.  I'm not bein' soft, I jus' don't want to strand more things in the Grey.  Plus then we'd have more magic on our side.”

Ilshenrir smiled faintly.  “Compassion is dangerous, Cob.  As is such acquisitive ambition.  If you wish more magic, I can instruct Lark in its practice.”

“Uh...  I wouldn't object, but that's her say.”

“Is it?  You are the leader, Cob,” said Ilshenrir, turning to regard him directly.  “You bear the Guardian.  You set the mission and enforce its rules.  It was your choice to turn down armed support from various factions, Trifolder and skinchanger among them—your choice to trust in parasitic entities like myself and Dasira rather than native folk.  Your choice to head straight into the teeth of the enemy, under guise but without support.  If your choice is also to leave the cultivation of your followers to their own personal preference...”

Cob stared up at the wraith, shoulders tight.  “Y' think I'm wrong, then?  Y' coulda said somethin' earlier!”

“I think that you are an inexperienced leader,” said the wraith with great patience, “and a somewhat unwilling one.  Yet our lives are in your hands.  No matter your misgivings, it is your job to command us—to utilize us in the best way possible.  I am honored to be a part of this; I once feared that you would not accept my aid at all.  But I cannot see a coherent plan in your actions, and it concerns me.”

“I have a plan!”

“To enter the Palace and slay Enkhaelen?”

“Yes!”

“And what is this plan?”

“It's...what you jus' said.”

“Cob.  That is not a plan.  That is a statement of intent.”

Cob exhaled forcefully through his teeth.  “Look, if what Dasira says is true, what kinda plan can we really have?  The Palace changes itself, it'll be full of crazy pilgrims and kings and mentalists, we're not sure where Enkhaelen will be...”

“Is this a suicide mission, then?”

“No!  Absolutely not!  Jus' because—“ 
Every other assault on the Palace has ended in utter failure.
  “—We don't have a clear idea of what we're gettin' into right now doesn't mean we won't have one once we're at the gates.”

“Yes, I understand.  Thus we must hone what weapons we have, while we await news of our foe.  If you desire more magic, Lark is the only one of this company who can be taught, and so I will teach her.”

“I jus'...  Would you at least ask her first?”

“Nothing can be taught by force.”

“I know, but if she thinks I'm tellin' her what to do, she'll probably punch me.”

“Perhaps you two should discuss that.”

I'd rather fight the haelhene
, thought Cob, then kicked himself.  Ilshenrir was right; he was the leader, and that meant managing his team—even the ones who kind of hated him.  Unfortunately, the only effective leader he'd worked under had been Maevor, back at the Crimson camp, and his managerial technique had hinged on gossip and bribery.

“It's difficult,” he said, fixing his gaze on his hands.  “I'm not good with people.  They make me angry.  Look, I broke a buncha knuckles here in an argument with some 'comrades', and pikes, look at my face.  Nose three times, jaw once.  I don't know how t' use words to make people obey.  The Guardian helps with folk like the skinchangers, but everyone else jus' sees right through me.  And I...I don't even know what I want from this.  Enkhaelen has to die, but what then?  What about the Empire?”

Ilshenrir's voice from above was as calm as ever.  “The empires of humankind have risen and fallen for millennia.  I know it is not what you wish to hear—“

“No, it's not.  I know the Trifolders want the Emperor dead.  Fiora says it all the time.  I know he's somethin'...strange, and involved in all this creepy shit goin' on.  But what happens without him?  The Empire's not the enemy, it's jus' people.  Farmers and craftsmen and priests and soldiers, families and kids and old folks.  What happens to them?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes!”

“Then you will be disappointed, Cob.”  The wraith shook his head, long hair shifting like glass filaments.  “There is no way to know.  My people can glimpse possibilities—can navigate to an outcome or force one into being, sometimes, if we are unopposed and can bring enough power to bear.  But there are unending options spread out in all dimensions.  You can not see if your actions will bring peace or chaos, success or destruction, until you take them.”

Cob looked up at him, blinking.  “You see the future?”

“I just explained that I do not.”

“But you said you can force things to happen—“

“With great effort.  It is nigh impossible to do in this realm, for the land resists us.  Most often we use it in battle with each other, and I do not think that any of us can use it around you because of the weight of the Guardian's presence.  In the same way that you forced Erestoia to be solid and static, you restrict the manipulation of probability.”

“So you'd be more effective away from me.”

“I would have no purpose away from you.”

For a long moment, Cob regarded Ilshenrir's fine alien features, then sighed and gestured for him to sit.  The wraith tilted his head, then folded down beside him.  From closer, he looked more human, his pale yellow eyes only a touch more luminous than natural.  The outer surface of his substance had returned to its cloth-like state, no different from silver silk in the moonlight.

“Do wraiths have friends?” Cob said.

A slow blink, then Ilshenrir seemed to contemplate it.  “We have teachers.  We have superiors.  We have those we commune with—our
jehaithe
, our...other-souls.  But we do not...make jokes.  We do not laugh at each other.  We share interests and tasks, but they are for the advancement of that interest or task, which I think is not what you mean.”

“So you never jus' get together because you like to be around each other?”

“With
jehaithe
, yes.”

“But that's...closer.”

“Yes.”

“What about your teachers, once you're done bein' taught?”

“What about them?”

“Well...d'you still talk?”

“We collaborate sometimes.”

“But jus' for projects.”

“Yes.”

“What will y'do when we finish this?”

Ilshenrir looked up at the stars, brows furrowed faintly.  “I do not know.”

They sat like that for a while, watching the sky lighten, until a scuttle of claws made Cob look over to the cave-mouth.  Arik, emerging, turned immediately toward them with ears perked and nose twitching, and bounded over happily at Cob's beckon.  After a quick circuit, complete with thorough sniffing, the great wolf flopped down over Cob's legs.

“Argh,” said Cob, pushing at the wolf's chest ineffectually.  Arik's big pewter tail whapped hard against the ground.

“Everyone wakin' up then?” he continued, glancing to the cave again.  The warding spell blocked noise as well as wind and temperature, and he could not see from this angle.

“Rrrmph,” said the wolf, then opened his mouth wide and wiggled jaw and tongue until they contorted into something more humanoid.  Cob winced; he hated watching it.  “Not yet,” rasped the wolf, then flipped onto his back and wiggled around on Cob's legs until Cob kicked him away in exasperation.

The wolf laughed his creepy almost-human laugh, then sprang up with an announcement of “Must pee on everything!” and zoomed away into the trees.

“He is enthusiastic,” said Ilshenrir.

Cob rolled his eyes.

By the time the women began to emerge, Arik had returned and annoyed Cob into a wrestling match.  It never failed; he could only take so much waggy, sniffy, ear-chewing, noodle-tongue-up-the-nose behavior before he had to hook an arm around the wolf's neck and try to make him one with the dirt.  Arik loved it, and even Cob reluctantly admitted it was fun.  They were halfway down the hill, floundering through a destroyed patch of shrubs, when an “Oh by the gods”  from above interrupted their romp.

He looked up to find Dasira and Fiora peering down at him from the entrance, Fiora with hands on her hips, Dasira shaking her head.  Abashed, he turned away from the skinchanger, who immediately tackled him into the bushes.

“This is why you have no good tunics!” shouted Fiora.

“Peace—oof, peace!” Cob said, shoving the skinchanger off, and Arik sprang to his paw-like feet then settled, crestfallen.  When Cob waved an arm, though, the skinchanger hauled him up and helped detach him from the clinging branches, then picked leaf bits from his hair fastidiously.  Cob allowed it and tried to smooth his torn tunic.  Any scratches he had sustained were long gone, but once again he was a mess.

“Sorry, jus' got a bit distracted,” he called up to the women.  “Lark still asleep?”

“She won't come out and says she hates us all.”

“Right, so...fire and tea then.”

Cob and Arik fetched the wood, Ilshenrir provided the spark, Fiora did the brewing.  Dasira vanished back into the cave the moment they started organizing, and though Cob couldn't see, he felt her moving within that dark space—slow, deliberate, the same physical routine she had been doing since mid-trek when she said she felt up to it.  She was trying to get back into fighting fit, he knew, but she still stumbled on the trail.  Even now he could feel the strain in her muscles by the way her feet moved on the earth.

He didn't want to pry, but Ilshenrir was right: this was the team he'd chosen, so he had to refine it.  They all needed work.  Arik's mood had improved since leaving the wolf-tribe behind, but he still stuck to Cob like a burr, and Lark alternated between gloom and levity, anger and boredom.  Maybe magic would help her.  He wasn't sure how to help the wolf.

And Fiora...

Maybe he didn't love her, but he couldn't be sure.  Every time he tried to pin down the emotion, it parted like water, leaving him grasping in confusion.  He wanted—no, needed to have her close, even if they couldn't stop arguing, but the ache in his chest discomfited him.

He'd felt this attachment to another once, and failed her.  He couldn't bear a repeat.

The tea was ready just in time for the sun to crest the mountains.  Fiora had to waft a cup in front of Lark before she would come out of the cave, and even then the southern girl looked groggy and sullen.  When Arik flumped down at her side and slung a furry arm across her blanket-heavy shoulders, she sighed resignedly then leaned into him.  Cob watched that, curious, but couldn't decide whether something was happening between them.

By the time Dasira emerged, Fiora had made her own tea and settled against Cob's side, and the look the bodythief gave them was studiedly neutral.  Cob kept his own face composed.  The women had issues with each other, and his opinion seemed to bear no weight.

“We should be at the border by mid-day,” said Dasira as she settled on Lark's other side.  “I'd suggest sending Arik to scout ahead, or you do it through the Guardian, Cob.  We want to avoid contact with anyone directly on the border because they'll be obligated to report it to the Sapphire Army.  Once we're actually inside Riddian, they won't care.”

“You can't talk our way through the border somehow?” said Lark.

“Not from the Garnet side.  If there's even one Trivestean stationed where we cross, we'll be eating arrows, and the Riddish Sapphires are fiendishly territorial.  Give them a border to guard and they'll run you down as a trespasser and piss on your corpse.”

“Lovely.  Why is the east so piking barbaric?”

“You're just squeamish.”

“Well, it shouldn't be difficult,” said Cob before the bickering could start.  “We've got forewarnin' between me and Arik, veilin' from Ilshenrir, then Das talks our way through the interior.  So I guess we're ready?”

“If you want a fire while we're in there, you'd best gather the wood now,” said Dasira.  “Very little grows in the salt desert and I wouldn't recommend burning it.”

“And what else?  Water?” said Lark.  “We'll be in there for what, a week?  I don't think my canteen's that big.”

“We can pick up supplies at an inner town.  There should be plenty at the desert's edge, selling food and water and the like.  Protective clothing too.  Hats, gloves, scarves, eye-guards.  The glare off the salt gets bright, and when the wind kicks up, the grains can strip you to the bone.  Not to mention being toxic.”

“Hooray,” said Lark.  “At least we have money this time.”  She shook a bag at her hip, which rattled with the sound of rough gems.  “They don't call these the Garnet Mountains for nothing.  Plus we could always cut a chunk off the silver sword.  That thing's worth as much as a mansion.”

“Pike you,” said Fiora, grasping the sheath protectively.  “This is our main weapon!”

“I'm just saying, in an emergency, it's really valuable.”

“More valuable to us!”

“If the enchantment is in the metal, then cutting a piece off shouldn't—“