The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (8 page)

“Stop makin' excuses.”

'I am not.  Many vessels took days to regain themselves after our arrival.  We do not have that luxury, not with your plan, and we know you do not trust us around your friends.'

Cob scowled.  “For good reason.  You hate most of 'em.”

'We do not understand why you keep company with them, true.  But we—I—do not wish that to come between us.  Others think differently.  We are not all of one mind.'

“Yeah, I've pikin' well seen that.”

'Then you understand our restraint.'

“No.  We don't need to mesh, you just have t'show me what I need to see.  Like what happened with Enkhaelen in the swamp.”

Haurah stiffened.  Still looking away, she said,
'I do not remember.'

“Don't lie to me.”

'Ko Vrin, I—'

“No.  He didn't kill you.  He brought that head t'you, but apparently it wasn't t' goad you into a fight.  So what happened?”

Her hands curled into fists, and he realized she was trembling, her skin subtly velveting with fur as she stared into the woods.  “Haurah,” he tried again.

Her gaze snapped to him, eyes blazing with a feral light. 
'He lied!  He was full of lies!  He said he wanted to help us while he held the head of my dead mate!  He showed me the white worms in it and said they were why we should never come to the Palace, but I knew they were his work!  He wanted to frighten us away, but I am no cub!  I refuse to be frightened of worms!'

“The—  The Guardian disagreed?” said Cob, unnerved by her fervor.

'The prey-folk, prey-spirits, they are cowards,'
she snarled, slinking toward him.  Though she was small and insubstantial, the lean coiled fury of her frame triggered an ancient alarm in his blood, and it was all he could do to stay still. 
'They tried to make me flee, but I refused.  And so they left me in the swamp to seek vengeance alone.'

She reached out with clawed fingers, and at their touch, a memory flooded in: the twitching head of the big wolf in her grip, the threads at work in its neck-stump and between its jaws.  The stink of the swamp, summer-hot yet barren of insects.  The Ravager standing mere yards away in its corpse-shell, black robe soaking up the water, scarred brow arched as it observed.

And the struggle—anger, fear, denial, rage, every instinct that longed to play itself out through tooth and claw.  The dark counterweight of the Guardian pulled at her, urging her to drop the head and flee, but that gleaming white city still lurked in sight, only a fine screen of trees as a barrier.  She had nothing left to lose, no reason not to go for the throat.

A predator that turned and ran became prey.  She would not let the Ravager win.

The memory snapped, and he shook his head vigorously, disoriented and unsettled.  Those threads, so like Dasira's bracer...

“You shoulda showed me before,” he said, looking up, but Haurah was gone.

Exhaling, he turned in his tracks to find the others behind him: Vina the ogress, Jeronek the earth-blood, and Erosei.  His father lingered at the rear, watching.

Jeronek spoke first, square face solemn. 
'I will let you see what you can, but I agree that we must not pour our memories into you.  The Guardian departed Haurah before her death, but could not do so for all of us.  We do not wish you to relive such pain.'

'I might,'
said Erosei, grinning unpleasantly.

Vina leveled a glare on the Kerrindrixi fighter that could have wilted a forest, but he just sneered.  With a snort of disgust, the ebon ogress looked to Cob. 
'I do not know that my memories can aid you beyond those you have already seen, but you are welcome to them, Ko Vrin.  I have nothing to hide.'

“What about you?” said Cob, looking past them to his father.

For a long moment, Dernyel stayed silent, dark gaze fixed.  Then he said,
'What is it that you wish to see?  Your mother?  Yourself?  The many dusty roads I traveled, the many fruitless councils I attended to try and build resistance to the Empire?  I was no fighter, not until the end.  There is nothing I can show you.'

Cob gritted his teeth.  “Then why are you here?”

'Because I would see you safe and well.'

The knot in Cob's chest tightened, but he would not give these connivers the satisfaction of seeing him snap.  Still, the bitterness burned his tongue as he said, “Good work you've done so far.”

Dernyel did not respond, only watched him with those inscrutable eyes.

It seemed to Cob, when he turned to stalk into the woods for some real time alone, that it was all his father had ever done.

Chapter 3 – Blaze and Shadow

“Sir, I think you should stop.  And not just because this stuff is expensive.”

Captain Firkad Sarovy set his glass down and frowned across the desk at his lancer-lieutenant, Erolan Linciard.  It was late evening of Cylanmont 20th, and he had spend much of the past two days cleaning up after his commander's mad need to destroy anything that slighted him.  Specifically, the Bahlaeran Shadowland.

Argus Rackmar—still Field Marshal, now also interim Crimson General—had already returned to the Crimson camp near Kanrodi, leaving Sarovy with the mess and an offhand order to stabilize the city.  What he actually expected Blaze Company to accomplish, Sarovy did not know, for he been given neither a writ of purpose nor the chance to ask questions.

Since then, what little time he had not spent in surveying the Shadowland ruins, observing the intake of the many rioters the incident had incited, and moving his men into the central garrison over the objections of the militia commander, had been spent being shrieked at by the city's figurehead, Lord Governor Mekhos Bahdran.  The Lord Governor was incensed by the unannounced military action, but Sarovy had no answers for him.  Bahlaer, like the rest of the Illanic city-states, was under the control of the Imperial Crimson Claw Army, and with Field Marshal Rackmar in command, it seemed that it would just have to accept its treatment.  No blood-payment, no apologies.

Finally, at the midnight mark, Sarovy had managed to retire to his new office.  It was formerly the garrison commander's, and due to the man's swift eviction had been left crammed full of furniture and maps, papers and superstitious bric-a-brac.  Sarovy's footlocker took up a bare smidge of space by the bed.

In rifling through the commander's leavings, Sarovy had discovered the liquor cabinet and the bottle of Jernizan tawny whiskey.  He was not normally a drinker, but it had not been a pleasant few days, and he had already worked through a quarter of the bottle by the time Lieutenant Linciard knocked on the door.

Linciard had his own glass now, but it was barely touched, while the level in the bottle had sunk to half.  He had been silent while Sarovy finished compiling his day's report, but it seemed he was now ready to air his thoughts.

Quill-pen down, glass down, Sarovy held the lieutenant's gaze until Linciard looked away.  “I am not drunk,” he said firmly.  “And as I have been given the responsibility of garrison commander, I am authorized to confiscate any substance I deem necessary to the operation of the company.”

“Sir, necessary whiskey—“

“Yes.  Right now, yes.”

Linciard slanted another concerned look at him, but he ignored it.  To tell the truth, the alcohol had done nothing; he still felt knotted tight, and had been grinding his teeth steadily since this morning.  He kept telling himself that he had trained for this, that he had the manpower and the mages and the intelligence to control the situation, but he knew better.  Two hundred and thirteen men were just not capable of holding a city, especially one infested with Shadow Cult.

And though he was a fort-holder Trivestean and thus a lightweight when it came to alcohol, the whiskey sat in his guts like water.

Across the desk, Linciard sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  In the light of the single lamp, he looked haggard, his broad shoulders slumped, his hair slipping from its war-braids.  He had been occupied for the past two days too, corralling rioters and taking over coordinating duties while Sarovy was in council with the Lord Governor.  Though he had done well, Sarovy wondered if he had raised the man from peasant soldier to officer too quickly.

Recently, everything happened too quickly.

He looked down at his piles of papers.  The garrison commander had left behind city maps, personnel notes, the militia roster and requisitions list, and a thick set of files on local businesses and persons of interest.  Though Sarovy normally left such documents to Lancer-Sergeant Benson, he had perused enough of them to see threads of extortion and blackmail tangled among the mundane details, which made the headache worse.  Trivestean cities were not run this way.  If ever a government needed a good scouring, it was this one.

Beside the garrison papers were his own personnel files, plus the list he had been making for the mages' experiments and a quick sketch of the barracks and outbuildings with all the men's bunk-assignments filled in.  The city's militia had scattered when Blaze Company took over their garrison—not Sarovy's idea, for he would have preferred to keep a few under his thumb.  While he had addresses for all of them, he did not have the time to surveil their homes to see if they were meeting with cultists.

He knew he should select a folder or a city map—should keep working for as long as he stayed conscious.  His men depended on him understanding the lay of the land and the mood of the populace.  Instead, he reached for the padded undershirt hanging at the edge of the table, and the thread and needle beside it.

Linciard's brows crinkled as he sat back with his mending.  “Sir, there's the Latchyard laundresses for that now, aren't there?”

“I can do my own chores, lieutenant.”

“You're the captain, sir.  You don't have to—“

“Are you just here to mother me?”

Linciard grimaced and dropped his gaze to his glass.  “No, sir.  I just...  This isn't what I expected.”

“I also darn my own socks.”

“I didn't mean that.  I meant...”  Linciard exhaled heavily and pushed sandy-blond hair back from his brow.  “That thing with the Field Marshal and the mages and the...destruction.  I was there when we brought down the wall of Savinnor, sir, but this was just...”  He made a flattening motion, palm to the table, then shook his head.  “And the girl, sir, what'd he want with the girl?”

“To bring her to the Light,” said Sarovy, though he could not keep the acid from his voice.  He hadn't been able to get that farm-family, the Crays, out of his head any more than he had been able to forget the Shadowland.  The red walls of magic crushing down upon the tavern and all who dwelt within...

He could rationalize it, of course.  The Shadowland was a bastion of their enemies, and it had to be destroyed.  He did not understand what use the Field Marshal could have for the farm-family, though, and if this was the man's method—sending his men out to do his bidding without even an inkling of the reason—then he preferred former General Aradysson's style.  Kelturin Aradysson had been secretive and duplicitous, but at least he had provided direction, if belatedly.

“But what does that mean, sir?  Shouldn't she be sent to the Palace with the others?  I thought that's where people go to meet the Light, not some borderland army camp.”

“It is no longer our business, lieutenant.”

“Isn't it, though?  We're the ones who arrested them.  Don't you wanna know why?”

“They were enemies of the Empire.”

“Sir, they were just—“

“I know,” Sarovy snapped.  “Women and children.  But not our women and children.”

“Sir...”

“What does a powerful man do with a young girl, do you think?”

Linciard looked taken aback, and Sarovy knew that his tongue was getting away with him but he was too tired to rein it in.  Or perhaps he was finally drunk, though he didn't feel it.

“But he's the High Templar,” said Linciard after a pause.  “And the priests, they're all—“

“Eunuchs, yes, or so the rumor goes.  But soldiers say that about most civilians, don't they?  And I haven't checked his codpiece, so the mystery remains.”

Scandalized, Linciard said, “No more whiskey for you, sir,” and reached for the bottle.

Sarovy let him take it.  This response was a large part of why he had commissioned Linciard to the lieutenancy over the other options.  A peasant with no political background, a soldier whose Crimson career he had overseen personally—but most of all a gregarious and protective man.  A mediator.  As a Wynd, he was Sarovy's foot in the door of the largely Wyndish infantry platoons; as a former Gold Army Border Corps soldier, he had been through the same kinds of skirmishes Sarovy had seen at the Trivestes-Garnet border, and thus knew the necessity of cooperation.  He wasn't the cleverest or most worldly, but that was for the good, because it let Sarovy read his expressions well.

Right now, he saw unease there.  Discomfort.  Disgust.

“Put it out of your head, lieutenant,” he said, because he hadn't wanted that.  He hadn't even meant to say it, except that she weighed upon his mind, that little girl.  This kind of talk was an offense to the Risen Light.  “The Field Marshal is one of the Emperor's closest retainers, so we must put our faith in him.  He has allowed Blaze Company to survive the reorganization of the army, and now it is our job to survive Bahlaer.  We can not brood about finished tasks.”

“I know, but...  What happens in the Palace, sir?  You've been there, right?”

He had, a long time ago.  He shook his head and took up the needle and thread again.  “That memory was excised from me.  It is not our concern.”

“That doesn't bother you, sir?”

“No.”

“Do you ever wonder...”

Linciard trailed off, looking at nothing, his expression tight.  After a moment's silence, Sarovy prompted, “Wonder?”

The lieutenant shook his head.  “No, nothing.  Sorry.  I just...it's been a long couple days.”

“Perhaps you'd best put the bottle down as well.”

“I haven't even—  Yessir.”

“How were patrols today?”

The lieutenant shrugged.  “The usual.  Bricks and vegetables.  The men have been performing all right with the rioters; I think clearing out the Shadow Cult caves at the coast was good experience for, y'know, not killing everyone we come across, though the Jernizen have been antsy.  The abom—  Er, the specialists did just fine, Rallant and the ladies in particular.  They're really helpful for calming folk down.”

“No doubt,” said Sarovy, threading the needle with cool precision.  “When I came back from my meeting, Specialist Ilia was in my bed.”

Linciard stared.  “What?  I mean, I know she's been watching you...”

“Yes.  And Sergeant Rallant, is he still following you?”

“Um, no sir,” said Linciard, fiddling with the collar of his uniform coat.  “Did you, um...  Did she...?”

“I threw her out.  The other specialists, did they misbehave under your command?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Good, but do not rely on them.  I can not be certain where their loyalties lie, especially with the removal of General Aradysson.”  He finished tying off the length of thread, then unfolded the undershirt to finger it for the tear he knew was there.  “Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek keeps them in line, not me, and he only tolerates those who show strength.  As my second-in-command, you must be vigilant for his inevitable test.”

“Test, sir, like that stare-down you had with him?”

“If not an outright attack.”  Sarovy glanced up from the first stitch to see Linciard blanch, and added, “He considered me little threat at the beginning.  You, though, are closer to his size.  Between us, it was a test of wills; between you, perhaps it will be arms.  Be wary.”

Linciard nodded slowly, then slugged back the whiskey left in his cup and coughed.  “Thanks, sir,” he said in a strained voice.  “I'll watch my back.  What're you fixing?”

“Just a cut.”  Sarovy poked a finger through the slit in the garment.  “The old Cray woman, you remember she came at me with a blade?”

“And then you snapped her wrist.  Yeah.  You should've let one of us go first, sir.  You could've gotten—“  Linciard broke off, frowning.  “Isn't that the undershirt?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said she didn't get you.”

“She did not.”

“But sir...  That was under your chainmail.”

Sarovy considered him for a moment, then looked down at the slice in the garment.  It was barely half an inch long and ragged, but it occurred to him that even half an inch in that spot meant that a certain length of the blade had—

Had—

The thought faded like an echo into fog, and he jerked his head up, feeling dizzy.  The alcohol and the long day kicking in at last.  “Is there something else, lieutenant?” he said, not sure where they'd left off.

Linciard eyed him.  “Uh, the shirt?”

“What about it?”

“...Sir, are you all right?”

Irritation rose in his chest.  He hated being treated like a fragile bird, and Wynds had a habit of doing just that.  He almost preferred Vrallek's challenges.  “Fine.  If you have no more business with me, you should sleep while you can.  This city is restless.  Incidents can happen at any time.”

Linciard stared at him, an uneasy mix of emotions on his long face, then nodded slowly.  “As you say, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Once the lieutenant had pulled the door shut, Sarovy rose to drop the bar on it, then returned to his seat and the garment and thread.  Spreading a garrison map out to memorize, he let his fingers work blindly, and tied off the last stitch with neat automatic motions while musing over entrances and exits and points of ambush.  When he tossed the tunic into the pile of his uniform gear—all draped over another chair, as he'd yet to figure out where to put them—the last thought of it fled him.