The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (114 page)

Maybe the problem is that we're too much the same
, she thought as she shrugged into the robe. 
Both bound to a psychotic version of our deity.

If only she knew enough to expose the girl as a cult extremist.  But maybe it didn't matter.  They were here on the word of the Ravager, with the help of Enkhaelen and information provided by Geraad the mentalist, all in the hope that the Guardian could stand up to the Light.  They could be making a terrible mistake.

Wouldn't be the first time.  Come on, Das, you've a job to do.

“But seriously, Cob, at least wrap your feet,” she said, then started into the village.

It wasn't a long walk, not with the spring of the white material beneath her feet, but it drained her nevertheless.  Low winter light threw blue shadows from the egg-shaped buildings, adding a hint of chill to the generally tepid air; at the corners of her eyes, both walls and shadow sometimes shivered as if alive.  It was in her mind, she knew; unlike the Palace, which filled her with angry tension, this place just felt haunted.  She clenched her hand around Serindas' hilt for the dubious support of his presence.

Soon the plateau narrowed and the structures thinned.  She stepped out from among the last few with a sense of relief.  The White Road was visible from the village's edge, pilgrims advancing along it like pieces on a game-board; with no cover between here and there, she felt a bit like a deer emerging from the woods.

In the northern distance, the architectural foothills of Daecia City rose faintly, half-obscured by trees.  There was a sense of greater whiteness beyond, towering up toward the sky, but it was hard to see from this vantage, as if draped in veils.  How long had it been since she'd last walked this path and seen the Palace's public face?  At least a decade, and things changed so swiftly in this place.

Swallowing her trepidation, she focused on the intersection with the road.  The stream of pilgrims stretched endlessly in both directions; she wasn't sure of the day, but guessed that the Festival was already in progress.  The portals within the city would be closed, forcing even a General to take the road.

Don't want to end up mugging a ruengriin
, she thought. 
Find a human, extend a few needles and 'help' them off the road once the dosage overpowers them...

That would work.  As the intersection came closer, she slid two fine strands out from under her fingernails, then urged her bracer to produce the obedience toxin.  Even before the Crimson camp, when she'd been obligated to use it on Cob, it hadn't been her favorite option; after the Guardian learned to sweat it out, she hadn't bothered again.  Now, though, it would work to allay suspicion.

Her gaze flicked over the approaching pilgrims, lips curled slightly to help catch the scent of abominations.  If she merged with the crowd at the south end of the intersection, she could pull a victim out at the north without it looking too odd...

Something caught her eye from the north.

She almost didn't look, too fixated on her task.  But a little signal in her mind said
red glass
, which triggered an image and a fear, so she gave it a glance.

And froze.

The red glass protruded over the shoulder of a white-armored figure stalking in her direction, pilgrims flowing away to either side before him.  A handful of White Flames jogged at his heels, but all she could see was his face.

Crown Prince Kelturin.

Her legs said
run!
but she dared not.  Instead she adjusted the hood of her robe, hoping that perhaps he was looking for someone else; perhaps she could blend in.  But his gaze swept across the village path then came to rest on her, in her muck-spattered robe, and even at this distance she saw the narrowing of his eyes.

Piking shit
, she thought.

And bolted.

*****

Cob put all his attention into wrapping his feet with strips torn from his mangled robe.  He'd seen enough of this place already.  The sooner it was behind them, the better.

If he looked up now, a superstitious part of him knew that he would see his mother's shadow.

Not the one that came to him in the Dark; even after everything, he refused to believe that was her.  Not the one that had been in his flying dream either, though of all of them that was the one he wished he'd see.  No.  In this place, among these cell-like capsules, he felt like he had in the doorway of the women's barrack, watching her figure twist on the rope beneath the rafters.

It was the same, and had always been so.  The quarry, the house in Fellen, the Crimson camp, and here: inseparable, four links in a chain that bound the whole of the Empire.  That had bound him, first in guilt and now in vengeance, to this treacherous faith and these terrifying people.  His mind hadn't changed; he still couldn't blame the Imperial citizens.  He doubted they knew any more than he had.

But their masters, oh...

Enkhaelen might not be guilty of what he had originally been told, but he had much to answer for—and Cob did not intend to ask.  If he had rationalizations for his horrors, he could take them to his grave.

They all could.  The Emperor, the Generals, and—

“Das?  What's wrong?”

He looked up at Fiora's question to see Dasira hustling toward them.  “We need to flee,” she barked.  “Get back down into the swamp.”

“Pikes, you got spotted?”

“More than that.  It's the prince.  We've probably been tracked.”

Cob's jaw set tight.  He remembered seeing that man amid the shattered remains of the War Gate, while Darilan forced him down behind the spars of a fallen watchtower.  Resplendent in his red and gold, he'd presided over Cob's entire time in the Crimson, from Jernizan to Savinnor to Bahlaer to Fellen—the pure embodiment of Imperial glory.  Crimson General and Crown Prince, the heir to the Throne.

“I'll face him,” he said, rising.

Dasira shot him a horrified look.  “No, we need to go.”

Ignoring her, he stepped forward, his antlers crackling into place.  The reformed staff in his hand did not feel as powerful as the tectonic lever, but it was more alive, more malleable; perhaps he could use it more wisely.  Ahead, pale shapes moved among the buildings, drawing closer.

A hand gripped his arm and he jerked away automatically, annoyed.  Dasira eyed him.  “You can't fight the prince,” she said.

“You don't think I'll win?”  He frowned.  “Or is this personal?  You were close...”

She cut him off with a sharp gesture.  “Not anymore, this is just bad timing.  If you two want to fight after we kill Enkhaelen, fine, but for now—  Hoi!“

He strode by, trusting in his long legs to keep him out of her reach.  The tension in his chest felt tight enough to burst, and he needed someone to hit.  Someone who deserved it.  As the Imperial entourage emerged from among the fibrous buildings, he saw the same intention gleaming in the prince's hard eyes.

No red-and-gold platemail clad him this time; he wore the stark white armor of the White Flames, though not the featureless helm.  His face was pale enough to match his garb, long hair bleached almost the same—had it always been that way?  Cob didn't think so.  In his hand was a wavy blade of dark reddish glass, the same color as the Hlacaasteia spire.

“You!  Guardian!” the prince barked as the distance between them narrowed.  “Lay your weapon down immediately!”

Black bark and ice crawled up Cob's arms, more slowly than they would within the swamp but aided by the elements of the staff.  Inside him, the Guardian quailed at the sight of the sword, and he remembered Vina and her opposite Kirhuua on the Wrecking Shore, the Ravager being blasted from its vessel by a similar blade.

“Don't worry.  You're not gettin' away from me,” he mumbled.

He could sense the others behind him—Fiora hefting the silver sword, Dasira with her dagger, Arik limping determinedly.  Only a few White Flames trailed the prince, which was a relief.  They could handle this.

“I warn you, surrender now or be taken!” the prince roared.  His grip on the red blade looked more like one for a scythe; in fact, as he neared, Cob realized it wasn't sword-shaped at all, but long and flat and filigreed in a way that shifted from instant to instant.

Piking wraith-work
, he thought, then waded in.

There was no circling, no moment to take each other's measure.  The prince came on blade-first and Cob met him likewise, and when their weapons clashed, sparks sprayed from the blade in red and black and violet, stinging Cob like fiery needles.

But that was all.  Though the very air felt scorched by the blade's current, it was no different from the magic he'd faced before—and hardly as dangerous as Enkhaelen.  In his hands, the staff compensated for it, the water conducting, the wood and stone insulating.  Red lightning jumped from it to his armor and from the armor to the road without effect.  He knew he couldn't take a strike on bare skin, but with luck, it wouldn't matter.

To his credit, the prince did not falter.  From the initial clash, he moved inward, swinging the near end at Cob's face like a hilt-bash while forcing a plated boot between his hooves.  Cob slid one hoof back and rooted it in the white plateau, and for a moment they matched strength and leverage from a hand's-breadth apart.  The prince's eyes flickered between amber and hazel, his face warping as he snarled—sometimes flesh and sometimes chitin, his teeth serrated.

Then Cob ducked his head and lunged forward, driving his skull into a jaw that split wide.   His antlers cut against plated scalp as the prince reeled back, cursing incoherently.  As Cob moved to pursue, he saw the finger-like sides of the prince's chin lace together again—saw his bug-like true eyes, the illusion blown—and hatred came down over him like a black curtain.

They engaged again at full force, sparks and bark flying.  Cob's gauntlets melded with the staff to keep it secure, water allowing for fluidity of movement beneath the protective crust; it was less like holding a weapon than like suddenly gaining new joints, longer limbs.  A helm of black ice crawled over his face in response to the sparks, locking out the world.  He felt oddly serene like this.  Capable, even masterful.

But the prince was no novice.  The glassy blade morphed constantly in his hands, presenting a cutting edge at one moment and a flat shield at the next, or a field of spikes or hooks or finger-catching holes.  He used his weight and plated boots to great effect—kicking Cob's feet out of root, pushing, hammering with knees and hard heels.  He came in low too, so Cob couldn't catch him with the antlers again.

So he could force Cob's staff back against his chest, then slip the blade between his legs and slice up.

The glassy edge shaved a layer of stone off Cob's inner thigh and sent lightning into his groin and gut.  He managed to push off and stumble back before it could cut flesh, but in the wake of the pain came a horrid numbness, like the aftermath of a burn.  Gritting his teeth, he positioned the staff like a spear and lunged for the prince's throat, only to be forced back and aside as the blade lashed toward his own neck.

The prince took advantage of it, lurching forward roughly only to body-slam Cob sideways when he fell for the feint.  This time Cob was the one to go low, taking a knee on impact and then rising and shoving up with the staff held horizontal, trying to lift the prince off his feet enough to throw him down.  It almost worked; he got the prince up on his toes and was twisting for the throw when the blade suddenly slipped from the staff's clinch.

The edge hit him in the jaw.

He flung himself backward, but the red was already sweeping up—peeling off the faceplate and one nostril and filling his eye with hot lightning before it carved a path through his brow and severed an antler.  Blood rained down that side of his face.  He staggered back, off-balance, half-blinded and stunned.

“Untrained whelp,” said the prince, not advancing.  His voice was low and controlled, and though his faceted gaze burned with anger, he waited as Cob pawed the blood from his eye and blinked against the blazing afterimage.  “I can't believe one slave and one spirit could cause this much trouble.”

“Pike you,” rasped Cob.  Already the Guardian's mending itched across his nose and chin and brow, but it couldn't erase the fact that he'd nearly died.  Could still die, without ever facing Enkhaelen.

“And for what?” the prince continued.  “What is it that you want?  To be sacrificed here, like we'd planned for you?”

“I'm here for Enkhaelen.  For the Seals.”

“The what?”

Cob opened his mouth but had no words.  Around him, the others fought in flickers and curses; he couldn't stand around and talk.  Surely the prince was baiting him.

But that pale face had gone thunderous, without subterfuge.  “Explain,” he demanded.

To keep from thinking, Cob rushed him.  The prince had lowered his blade slightly during his wait, and Cob angled the staff to catch and keep it down, his remaining antler to gouge for an eye.  But with head bowed, he couldn't react fast; the end of the blade dipped as he came in, and he managed to connect with it—then the prince's free hand clamped on his antler and twisted.

His chin went sideways.  The other white gauntlet rose to grab it.  He heard the wraith-blade hit the ground and tried to bring his staff to bear, but the prince stepped in too close—almost nose to nose, his grip like iron.  The vertebrae in Cob's neck creaked under pressure.