The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (69 page)

“This is gettin' way over my head.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, and to his surprise she sounded strained—almost agitated.  “It's my fault we ended up there.  They pulled me out, and everyone followed, and it all just fell apart.”

“You didn't know.”

“I should have!  I learned enough at the temple to have recognized something was wrong!  But I didn't, and even when I had a bad feeling about it, I told myself that it was fine.  I got—“  She glanced to where Lark plodded in parallel to them, head bowed, arms curled tight around the unresponsive bundle.  Lowering her voice, she hissed, “I got him killed and Ilshenrir caught.  I'm so, so sorry.”

“We both made mistakes.”

“But I—“

Halting, Cob clasped Fiora by the shoulder and forced her to turn toward him.  Leaning down to be on level with her, he found her eyes misty and mouth set in distress.  “We did what we could,” he said softly.  “Once the fight started, we had no control over what was happenin'.”

“It didn't have to start.”

“Fiora, they were on our asses before we went into the Grey.  The only way we could've avoided that fight is if we'd gone through the spirit realm, and that's pikin' dangerous too.”

She grimaced and tried to shrug free of him.  He let her.  “I still need to know why they came for me.  If I did something wrong—”

“There's no way it was you.  Maybe Ilshenrir was mistaken about Daenivar and he told our enemies how to find you.  He'd been watchin' over the sword for who knows how long.  Plenty of time to put some magic on it.”

Fiora gave him a doubtful look, but nodded.  “Maybe.  He and Rhehevrok and the Blood Goddess have always sought to undermine us.  Trick us, kill us, steal us from the Trifold.  He even—  He
talked
to me outside the manor.”  She shuddered.  “If I've brought his attention down on us, I'm sorry.”

“Let's both stop sayin' that and jus' figure out what to do.”

“Right.  Right.”

Together they looked to Lark, who had kept walking despite their pause.  Arik lingered near her, ears raised, glancing back and forth in concern; now that there was no salt to harm him, he mostly stayed in wolf-form.

“Lark,” Cob called.  She didn't seem to hear.

Fiora hissed, “We have to deal with that, too.  I don't know her well enough...”

“Y'think I do?”

“You met her long before I did.”

“Yeah, but she hates me.  All the more now.”  Steeling himself, Cob turned and quick-walked after her, Fiora jogging along in his wake.

From behind, Lark was the least bedraggled of them, her orange mage-robe having repelled the stains and damage that decorated everyone else and her braids still tight and orderly, but her gait was more of a shuffle—automatic, mindless.  As they caught up, Cob saw the dead-eyed expression still affixed to her face, the unfocused numbness.  He almost feared to breach it.

“Lark,” he said.  “Hoi, Lark.”

She didn't answer, didn't look.  In her arms, the grey-brown bundle could have held anything, for no scrap of skin showed.  There was no smell, not yet; between the mineral-thick waters and the cold, Cob figured the goblin had been partially preserved.

But this couldn't continue.

“Lark,” he said again, and caught her shoulder.

She halted.

“We're gettin' close to town,” he said.  “We need to figure some things out, and...lay him to rest.  You understand that, right?  It's not what any of us want, but we have to be stealthy.  And we need you focused on the mission.”

Her expression hardened, but she didn't look at him; she just ducked her head, arms clasping tighter around the bundle.  Not for the first time, he wished Dasira was here; the two had formed a surprising bond.  But there was no point in thinking about what couldn't be.

“Please,” he murmured.  “Let's give him a proper send-off while we still can.”

Lark gave a sharp shake of her head.  “I want to return him to Bahlaer,” she said, her voice nearly a croak.  “Back to where he belongs.  Where we never should've left.”

“I wish y'could, but that's weeks away.” 
If we even return from the Palace.

“Days.”

“Days?”

“I'll find a caravan.  Leave the shadowless circle.  Call the eiyets to take me home.”

Cob swallowed.  It was what he'd wanted for her ever since she rejoined him, but to have it happen like this made him feel ashamed.  “Y'said Bah-
kai
fell.”

A fire kindled in her eyes.  Her fingers curled in the rough fabric, lips skinning back from her teeth.  “I'll fix it.  Then I'll kill everyone who tried to harm us.”

“I don't doubt that.  But even days—“

She rounded on him, snarling.  “Don't you dare tell me what to do, or how to grieve.  You—“  Visibly biting back on her vitriol, she looked away, then continued, “Rian is my concern, not yours.  I'll get you into the city and on your way to the piking Palace, and then I'm gone.”

“Do we have any money?” said Cob cautiously.

“I lost the trade garnets the wolves gave us.  So unless any of you have spare coin...”

“Only a little,” said Fiora.  “Tin and copper.”

A long breath, then Lark turned toward them more fully, face pinched but eyes clearer—if hooded.  “You'll need the entry tax, food, pilgrim robes, caravan funds, probably some more taxes, possibly bribes.  I have no way to contact my people, and I don't think spirits use money.  Maybe we can walk through the walls and mug some locals.”

“No,” said Cob.

“
'No'
,” she mimicked nastily, then shrugged.  “Well, I don't know then.  I can't spin gold from thin air.  We could shave a few slivers from the silver sword—“

“Absolutely not,” said Fiora.

“—or you could do some Guardian thing.  Call up earth elementals like the ones that gave us the garnets and get more.  Or make something we can pawn.  Pikes, we probably could have chipped off some mineral salts while we were in Crystal Valley and made good money.  We Kheri get most of our alchemical supplies from the Riddish.”

Cob frowned down at the mudstone path.  Even with the tectonic lever, he'd had a hard time sensing the earth elementals in the mountains, and had no idea if there were any here—or how to contact them.

“Maybe we don't need so much money,” he mumbled, aware that he was stepping onto thin ice.  “Jus' enough for me.”

Behind him, Fiora sucked in a sharp breath.  Lark gave him a look.

Despite the warnings, he committed to it.  “I'm thankful t' you all for comin' with me this far, but I think I should go alone.  After the black water—”

A fist rammed into his kidney.  He took a half-step forward, more startled than hurt; the Guardian armor still sheathed him in a thin layer of stiffened sand.  The next fist, at rib-level, just made him scowl.

“How dare you!” shouted Fiora as he turned.  Her face was clenched tight, sunburned skin beginning to flake from her flushed cheeks.  “You can shove that staff right up your ass, Cob, if you think I'm gonna run!”

“I'm not sayin' to run, I'm sayin'—“

Her nostrils flared, and she hit him again—one, two, three—right below the ribs, then rammed her boot into his shin.  He let her, not sure how to deal with this.  “Stop,” he tried.  “Look at what you're doin'.  We hollered about this at Enkhaelen's place; I don't wanna do it again now.”

“You are not leaving me behind!”

“It's the best choice!  Fiora, no offense to your goddesses, but they're not gonna help against the Ravager.  You said it yourself: he killed dozens of priestesses and templars.  Your lot, they're light and fire and metal but so's the Ravager, so's the Emperor.  Pikes, if he's truly the Outsider—“

“Then he needs to be assassinated!”

“It can't be done!  The Seals need to be replaced, and he'll be shut back out.  That means killin' Enkhaelen; that means usin' the silver sword while under cover of a power that can stand up t' both of them.”

“Well, that's not the Guardian,” she said sharply.

He looked away, not wanting to let slip what he was coming to believe was necessary.  Down there in the black water, he'd nearly made a deal with the Dark—to quench the Light in exchange for the safety of his friends.  For all that it sickened him, he'd begun to wonder if that urge had been right.

The memories in the arrowhead pinpointed Enkhaelen's true presence as right behind the throne.  If the Guardian could barely stand up to the Ravager...  If it had been incapable of approaching the Outsider's Portal during the Sealing...

If nothing in the physical realm was strong enough to stand up to the Imperial Light, then he would have to call the Dark again.  No matter if it consumed him.

He could feel the Guardians' anger, but Fiora's all the more.  “What aren't you telling us?” she said, rapping him on the chest once again with her fist.  “It's not just protectiveness.  There's been something wrong with you for ages.”

“No there hasn't.”

“Hog-crap!  If there's nothing wrong, explain the water!  Explain your nightmares, because I know you have them!  Explain why you're such a dour fatalist that you'd cast us away without even listening!”

There were so many answers, none of which he could bear to say.  Instead, he pushed away from her, taking pains to be gentle.  She would have none of it, and matched him step for retreating step.

“You complained when they wouldn't come into Haaraka with you,” she said, “and you welcomed me along.  That was just as dangerous as this.”

“It wasn't—“

“It was, and we knew it from the start!  None of us are blind, Cob!  We accept the piking danger!  Nothing's changed!”

“It has.  You're—“

The word caught in his teeth.  He didn't want to say it—didn't want to start that fight, or acknowledge a future he didn't expect to see.  But her eyes narrowed and she moved closer, grabbing him by the tunic and making a futile attempt to pull him down.

“I'm what?” she growled.

Arms held out in surrender, he said, “You're pregnant.  I jus'...I need you to be safe.”

She blinked, then went pale—then red.  “What?” she said through bared teeth.

“The Guardian can feel it.  The baby—our baby.  It's still tiny; it hasn't even got a heart yet.  But it's alive despite everythin', and I want it to stay that way.  And you.  I want you to—“

“
I don't care what you want!
” she screeched, and for a moment her near-feral expression made her a stranger.  “You don't get to tell me what to do!  Only my goddess—  Oh no, no no no no no.“

Startled by the change, he tried to clasp her shoulders, but she ripped free and stumbled a few steps back.  “No!” she snapped.  “Curse you, that's why she wouldn't hear me.  I've gone over to Brigydde!”

“What?  How?”

“How do you think, you idiot?  Breana gets her power from Brigydde.  The moment one of us kindles, the Hearth Mother senses it.  She takes us for the sake of the baby and we can never go back!”  Her voice hitched; wetness glittered in her eyes.  “You hear me?  I can never be a Breanan again!”

Cob didn't know what to say.  He'd suspected it, but her confirmation and her tears were too much.  He tried to hug her but she struggled from his grip, elbowing and spitting, and he thought better of going after her.  To the side, Arik and Lark both watched in silence.

For a long moment, the only sounds were Fiora struggling to get her sobs under control, the rasp of her hidden chainmail and the clack of the sword across her back.  At this moment they seemed like a mockery.

“Surely...surely it's not the end,” Cob dared at last.  “The goddesses can't force it on you, right?  Y'could always—“

“Quit the temple?”  Her voice was watery, ragged.  “And do what?  Oh, I could become a Branciran in a year or two, once the brat is weaned—learn a craft, shadow a judge—but
I don't want to!
  I want to be a soldier!  I want to fight for the faith!”

“Then maybe you shouldn't've jumped on Cob's dick.”

Fiora wheeled on Lark for that comment, but the Shadow girl stood her ground.  “The Guardian is the spirit of fertility,” she continued.  “That's never been a secret.”

“I took precautions!  I drank the tea every day, I prayed not to kindle, I—“

“Did you tell him about it?  You know, your piking partner?”

“It's not his business.”

Lark laughed incredulously, then looked to Cob with raised brows.  Fiora did the same.

He fish-mouthed, then tried, “Tea?”

“The maiden tea,” said Fiora dismissively.  “To prevent the bleed and this...sort of thing.”

“Pretty sure the Guardian is stronger than some herbs,” said Lark.  There was a dangerous edge to her voice, spiteful, contemptuous.  Her hands were clenched so hard on the goblin's bundle that the knuckles had gone pale.  “So that makes you piking stupid.”

“Shut up, you lock-legged prude!  You know nothing!”

“I know better than this.  And you, Cob.  With the Guardian in your head, how could you not have expected this?  You know how babies happen.”