The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (63 page)

He was no longer enjoying those.  Before the arrival of Warder Tanvolthene, they had been pleasantly informal affairs between himself, Scryer Mako and Magus Voorkei that mostly involved brainstorming better gestalt techniques and trading psychic jests.  Neither Presh nor Voorkei could speak each other's native language, so Mako translated everything through thought-projection, which descended into the ridiculous and dirty by the end of each meeting.  None of them was averse to a good bottle of wine, either.

It reminded him of his best years at the Taradzur Academy.

With Tanvolthene's involvement, the meetings had become actual business, conducted sitting at a table instead of lounging on the floor and with quill-pens and notebooks rather than wine-glasses and Voorkei's noxious pipe.  Tanvolthene seemed pleasant enough—a gregarious thirty-something from Darronwy, one of the Imperial provinces close to the heart at Daecia—but his attention was persistent, his attitude cloying.  The only blessing was his lack of mentalism, else Presh suspected that his prying good cheer would be inescapable.

He pitied Scryer Mako, who had to host Tanvolthene in her head almost constantly as the man understood neither Gheshvan nor Talishan and had trouble with Voorkei's accent.  If Tanvolthene had his way, all four of them would be constantly connected—for 'safety and familiarity'—but Mako had refused to maintain the connection during sleep or when any of them was sexually engaged, and Tanvolthene had reluctantly conceded.

Thus, the brothel was one of the few places Presh could go to not be disturbed.

Sometimes he came for the company, sometimes for the bathing amenities on the lowest floor—nearly Taradzuren in quality—but at other times he came simply for the lack of intrusions.  He would have slept here if not for the exorbitant pricing, so he usually just bought a mark or two in an empty room to breathe and collect his thoughts—and report to his master.

As he dropped his key yet again, he realized he had drunk too much tonight.  That made his satchel a useless burden.  His fellow specialists liked to speculate about what was in it and why he carried it to the brothel, but though there were shackles included, they were for elementals, not lovers.  Though he wouldn't object if someone had an interest.

By law, he could be arrested for having this arcane paraphernalia, and for practicing magic while not wearing a Circle robe.  Warder Tanvolthene didn't seem to care about his illegal status, though, and Presh thought perhaps his patron had applied some leverage.  As a foreigner during a time of war, Presh could not join the Silent Circle, but he belonged to its Evoker Archmagus nonetheless.

Meditation, then.  He could settle among the cushions and stare at the ceiling, arrange his thoughts in pleasant patterns, and let the stress of the day flow away.  Every moment of peace was precious, especially if his patron's warnings came true.

He unlocked the door on the sixth try and pushed into the softly-lit chamber with a smile of relief.  It was unoccupied, the bed piled high with pillows and the oil lamps modestly shaded, their light reflecting from the myriad strings of beads that adorned the walls.  The air smelled thickly of perfume, this being a cheap inner room rather than a better balcony one.  Still, the twining vines stenciled on the walls were appealing, the décor tasteful.  A far cry from the rows of curtained beds in the women's barracks at base-camp.

Presh set his satchel down on a padded chair, took off his boots, then collapsed backward into the cushiness of the bed, ignoring the twinge of the scars on his belly.  Compared to the bunks at the garrison, these beds were almost worth the price themselves.

He was just past the first euphoria of freedom and beginning to wonder why the lamp-light on the ceiling looked like eyes when he felt a wisp of cold, dry air lick across his face.

Ah yes, the wards
, he thought vaguely. 
How neglectful of me.

Still, he had his personal protections and the elemental bangles beneath his sleeves, so as he levered himself laboriously to his elbows, he felt no concern.  Especially when he saw the woman in black, alone, a dark scar marring her expressionless bronze face.

“
Pajhrasthani?
” he said, bemused.

“
Yes, o wayward one,
” she replied in Talishan.

Her honeyed accent—so like his own—hit him hard in the chest, and he jerked upright, searching her features for any further kinship.  “
Taradzurena?  From the Academy?
”

“
I am no scholar,
” she said as she glided closer, indicating her dark attire.  He squinted; black-on-black, its details were hard to discern, but there was some suggestion of armoring in the leather.  Straps, buckles, precise tailoring, but a loosened neckline.  Another black scar curved up from there like a sickle.

More than a few weapons adorned her hips.

“
No...no, of course not
,” he murmured.  “
You are Kheri.  Are you here to kill me?
”

“
You are not mine to judge, star-brother
.”

He nodded slowly.  Back home in Pajhrastha, the worship of Shadow was as common as any other.  Men followed the Sun, women the Moon, mages and misfits the Disparate Stars, merchants and mercenaries the Shadow.  All shared, all cooperated, and none would intrude on the affairs of the others.

Or such was the tradition.  His scars spoke otherwise.

“
You would bring me home?
” he said.  “
To have the other stars slay me?
”

“
I would know why you are here in the colors of the enemy.
”

He had to laugh.  “
The enemy?
” he said, laying back to work at the lowest buttons of his Crimson coat.  “
Perhaps they are that to you, shadow-sister, but not to me.  No, not at all.  They may oppose our garish Sun and seek to deny the Moon, to stamp out the Shadows, but my master collects us star-children like diamonds.  Do you know why?
”

Her eyes, full black, narrowed slightly.  He could not help but grin at her distaste, and gave a drunken wiggle as he divested himself of his coat.

“
You look like you would understand
,” he said as he hiked up the undershirt beneath.  “
Your kind are quite familiar with violence.
”

Her scarred lips curled, then flattened as her gaze traced the burns on his belly.  Time had whorled them out of true, for once they had held the shape of the Sun Father Andar's judgmental eye.  Now they simply described a tortuous oblong from the top of his breastbone to the base of his abdomen, a few inches below the gyre of flesh that had been his navel.

He chuckled at her reaction, still awash in the comfortable buzz of alcohol.  “
Pleasant, yes?  A blessing from the Sun's children, for honoring them with my research.  Do you know that the Sun Father no longer speaks to them?  That the quality of his gaze has changed?  I studied with the astronomers and historians of the Academy, and bonded with the winds and the flames so that I might see the face of the Father.  Yet when I looked, I saw a mask.  A mask!
”

The woman frowned.

“
They do not hear him, the Father's priests.  They can not speak to him.  I showed them my research; I thought perhaps it was a trick, an assault by another god—but no.  He is not there, and they are liars.  The other astronomers promised that they would speak no more of it, but I would not be silent.  I came here to learn of this land's Light—to know if it was the same—but their Circle would not take me.  And when I sought their sacred city...
”

He drifted off, remembering the shards of his precious telescope scattered across the pavement, his papers trampled underfoot.  The blank façades of White Flame helms, the feel of their armored fists.  Another small stone room, another chair with shackles, so like the Sun's.

The sweep of black robes.  The scrutiny of a glacier-colored eye.

“
I do not have answers,
” he said, staring at the chiaroscuro of the ceiling, “
but the Risen Phoenix's priests are not sorcerers, not like the liars who wear the Sun Father's robes.  They are infused by something beyond magic.  Do you understand?
”

A silence passed.  He did not know how long it lasted.  His eyelids felt heavy; he might have fallen asleep.  Then she said, “
I know that you have abandoned your home, star-brother.
”

He gave a brittle laugh.  “
I seek the truth.  The truth is my home.
”

“
And you think to find it here, among these monsters?
”

“
I think...
”  It was difficult to distill into words.  For all that he was entranced by the Imperial Light, he was not a worshiper.  He did not accept the presence of the Imperial Light and the absence of the Sun Father with blind faith, but tried to look beyond—and what he saw, he did not understand.

“
I think that this Light does not hurt me, shadow-sister.  For now, that is all I require.
”

Another long look, then the woman exhaled through her teeth and gestured at his exposed stomach.  “
Cover yourself and cede your elemental bonds.  You give me no reason to harm you, so I will simply remove you.
”

“
And take me where?  Back to the Father's lying sons?
”

“
I have no obligation to them.
”

“
Where, then?
”  A thought occurred, and he brightened and tried to sit up, tugging at his undershirt.  “
Gejara?  Gernaaken perhaps?  I have been learning the tongue...
”

“
Into holding
,” she said coldly.  “
Beyond that, we shall see.
”

Presh sighed, but nodded.  He knew he had no choice.  He could snap out a few lights and sever his companion from the Shadow Realm, but his elementals were beyond his reach: by the Archmagus' orders, he held them on a loose rein, and they would not follow him into buildings without orders.  Nor could they pass through walls.

Perhaps it was for the best.  He would miss Mako and Voorkei, but when the priest Cortine had blessed him, he had felt a gaze upon him like a distant eye—not a Scryer's or a Psycher's presence but something more, something greater.  He had tangled himself in the affairs of a god he did not follow, and now it knew him.

The chamber dissolved into darkness.  He felt hands on his forearms, drawing off his bangles; felt them plucking at his shirt fastidiously.  When he woke, he would paw at walls that were not walls, too pliable, too
alive
, and would call out hoarsely for water, a visitor—anything.

But for the moment, under the ministration of the shadows, he simply slept.

*****

Later, in her temporary office far beneath Bahlaer, Enforcer Ardent sorted through the mage's tools while batting away the occasional inquisitive eiyet.  She did not want to think about his words.  Dealing with Blaze Company, the city and its rulers was quite enough.

Still, she was unnerved by his drunken babble.  She tried to tell herself it was none of her business; the Temple of the Sun had no influence on the Kheri, and vice versa.  Yet she had heard about this sort of suppression.  The Astronomers' Heresy, they called it.  And his allegations against the priesthood, his curious thoughts on the Imperial Light...

For now, such questions would have to wait.

*****

Riftdawn, Cylanost 31st.

The air was sharp and clear, the breath of the archers blooming white as they limbered up in the training yard.  Captain Sarovy watched as their lieutenant, Sengith, walked the lines, speaking a few words to each man and looking over their bows, their kit.  At the far end of the yard, straw bales were set up with painted cloth drapes, mimicking figures.  On the benches across from Sarovy, the crossbowmen fidgeted, waiting their turn.

“Do you ever miss the bow?” said Enlightened Messenger Cortine at his side.

Sliding his gaze to the priest, Sarovy considered the question.  He was not sure what Cortine saw when he looked at the yard with his milk-white eyes.  Perhaps it did not matter.  “I have a horse-bow, but yes.  Sometimes.”

“It is said that your people are born clutching the umbilicus like a bowstring.”

“I doubt that.”

A smile creased Cortine's mouth.  “Yes, but the association remains.”

Sarovy glanced to the line at Sengith's first call to loose.  Arrows spattered their targets; he caught the Trivesteans flashing grins and sneers at each other, always internally competitive, while the other archers contained their envy.  The two groups shot differently, Trivesteans with the thumb, the rest with their forefingers, but there were a few others affecting the Trivestean thumb-ring now.  Perhaps trying out the technique.