The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (115 page)

“Explain,” the prince snarled.

Cob broke his grip on the staff to grapple at the gauntlets ineffectually.  For all that the Guardian had urged his growth and given him strength, the prince was taller, broader—filled-out, and with the density of muscle that came from hauling around such heavy armor.  With this leverage, he could take Cob's head off with ease.

“The Seals,” Cob hissed finally, “the pikin' things that close the world to Outsiders like your father.”

The prince's face clenched, and Cob braced for the snap but found himself shoved back instead, stumbling.  Hooking one foot under the glassy blade, the prince hoisted it to his hand without bending, then bellowed, “
Disengage!
”

As one, the White Flames leapt back from their opponents.

Cob glanced around swiftly to find his friends still standing, if battered.  Fiora was wiping sweat from her face with her sleeve, Dasira rolling her blade nervously in her palm; Arik had dropped to his haunches, spitting white stuff.  All of them had shreds of the Palace fibers on them, but it seemed the White Flames had been fighting to subdue.

“Keep talking,” said the prince.

Confused now, Cob wiped his bloody cheek with the back of a bark-clad hand.  The staff lay at the prince's feet, too close to lunge for, but when the prince noticed him eyeing it, he kicked it into the neutral space between them.  In the absence of conflict, his illusion seemed to be reinstating itself: the long spines that crested his scalp softened slowly into hair, the stitchwork of moving parts fading from his jaw and cheek.

Cautiously, Cob fetched the staff, then retreated.  “Figured you knew this stuff.”

“I know what my father is, but I have not heard of these 'Seals'.”

“They were placed fourteen hundred years ago to kick him out.  Enkhaelen reopened 'em four hundred ago.  You never heard of the Great War of Empires?”

“Of course I have,” said the prince curtly.  “But...  You believe my father was involved?”

Fiora, moving up to flank Cob, said, “Know, not believe.  But it's not exactly common knowledge.”

Watching conflict cross the prince's face, Cob realized for the first time that he'd been privileged to have the Guardian's memories.  Despite all that they'd obscured from him, they hadn't lied, and through their eyes he'd seen more of history than any scholar.  Starting from ignorance had made Cob believe everyone knew more than him, but now that wasn't true.

The prince shook his head, then focused on Dasira, who blanched and quickly sheathed the seething blade.  “Vedaceirra,” he said in a tight voice.  “You knew?”

“I—  No,” she said.  “Kel, I had no idea until recently.”

“Then why did you leave me?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“She was assigned to me,” said Cob, drawing the prince's eye back to him.  “We became close, all right?  Things happened.”

“Is that why she's a woman now?”

“You shut your piking mouth, Kel!”  Dasira took a step forward, hand still on her blade's hilt.  “It was never like that with us, so don't pretend you're jealous.  I left because I couldn't handle Enkhaelen's shit anymore, or the plans we made for Cob.  The me you knew was an employee, not a friend, because that's all I could be.”

“You could have brought your concerns to me.”

Dasira barked a laugh.  “What would that accomplish?  No one listens to you: not your father, not the Field Marshal, not Enkhaelen.  How long have you spent trying to reform the Crimson Army, only to have them spit in your face whenever you—“

“He reassigned me.”

“What?”

“He gave Rackmar the Crimson.”

“Festering shit, Kel, I'm sorry.”

“You should be.  It's your fault, you and this boy and—“

“Ours?  It's your father's and Enkhaelen's.  They're the ones playing us all for fools.  And it was your choice to ignore your father's and Rackmar's commands.  I never told you how to lead.  You can't blame me when your efforts to go your own way get you dragged back in chains.”

“I had to change it!  You weren't there when I took it over.  It was worse than the Gold—“

“Uh, guys?”

“—just a horde of rapacious, expendable madmen even Rackmar wouldn't touch—“

“Um, hoi...”

“—and I had to rework the entire command structure, root out all my 'advisors'—“

“
Hoi!
” shouted Fiora, cutting through the prince's tirade.  “We've got company!”

All eyes snapped to her, and she pointed vigorously past the prince to where new figures moved among the strange buildings: more White Flames and mages—a veritable tide of them—led by a bulky figure in vestments as well as armor.

“Rackmar,” the prince said like a curse.  He turned a torn look to Cob and his friends, then jerked his hand in a shooing motion.  “Go.  We'll finish this later.”

“Um,” said Fiora with markedly less confidence, and Cob followed her gaze to find more White Flames coming up the vine-paths that bulwarked the village platform.  “I think later is now.”

The prince and Dasira traded glances.  Cob couldn't read them, and that unnerved him; he'd always been able to read Darilan's moods, to catch his gist by the slightest sidelong glance.  It was like these two had switched to their own language, barring him out.  As they turned to face the approaching crowd, he felt a twinge in his heart—the realization that he wasn't the whole of her world, and that he missed it.

“Well now, this is an interesting collection,” boomed a jovial voice.  “I wonder what our most holy Emperor would think.”

“Field Marshal,” said the prince.  “As you can see, these are my prisoners.”

“Are they?”  The voice belonged to the man in the lead: grizzled and heavyset, his shoulders broad enough beneath his armor to suggest ogre or bear-blood.  A white grin flashed out from the dark forest of his beard, and his gaze roved over Cob and the others before resting on Dasira and her black dagger-hilt.  “I see you've retrieved some of our missing assets.”

“Yes,” said the prince.  The red glass blade shivered in his hands; even from behind, Cob could see the tension in him.  The White Flames that had accompanied him were moving to stand with the new arrivals, their loyalties plain.

“I suppose you'd like to march them off to your father,” said the Field Marshal.  His smile and tone made him seem amused, but his eyes were the coldest Cob had ever seen.

The prince nodded sharply.  “That is what we'd planned, correct?”  Though Cob couldn't see his face, the tightness of his voice and stance made it obvious that he expected a fight no matter how this discussion went.

Raising a brow, the Field Marshal mused, “Is it?”

Then he swept a hand toward the White Flames, who parted to allow figures from deeper within the entourage to step forth.  Many were in white, but some wore plain-clothes, and one was in black, one in orange...

Cob's mind locked up.

Dimly he knew he should have expected this.  He'd seen the visions in the arrowhead—the conversions.  But he'd never imagined it would be like this.  One by one, they arrayed themselves at the Field Marshal's command: Altae Horrum, his horrid old tent-mate; Maevor, looking wearier than he'd ever been in the slave-camp; Weshker, bruised and subdued.  Vriene Damiel, mouth fixed in a motherly smile but eyes blank; Ammala Cray, inhumanly beautified by her conversion but still recognizable in her pride and anger; Nana Cray, barely a husk; and Lark.  Poor nearly-escaped Lark.

And there were more.  People he recognized only dimly or by their clothes: the carter who had driven him from Cantorin, the caravan-woman who had brought him dinner.  Other caravaners, including children; foothill townsfolk in their wolf-wool; the elderly pilgrims—even Yendrah and her nephew.  Behind them were others he didn't recognize: Illanites and Amands, Riddish and Wynds, from all the places he had been.

“Did you think you were invisible?” said the Field Marshal, black-ice gaze fixed now on him.  “Gallivanting through our empire with your band of renegades and fools?  We have eyes everywhere, Guardian.  —Heh, 'Guardian', such a name for an entity that can barely save itself.  See how well you've guarded these folk?”  He twitched a finger, and the crowd jerked as one, mouths wrenching open to emit a wild chorus of screams.

Brine rose thick in the back of Cob's throat.  His heart hammered on the inside of his ribs, every nerve screaming for him to fling himself at the Field Marshal—or run.  But there were enough mages there to slow him down, and under his hooves he felt a subtle writhe in the white flooring.  If it rose against him too, he would find himself in a cocoon just like Enkhaelen's.

“What d'you want?” he growled.

The Field Marshal smiled.  “I want you to kneel at my feet so that I might sever your head from your neck.  Whatever that little shit intends for you, I won't let him do it.  He has undermined me for the last time.”

Go pike yourself
, he wanted to say.  Even better would be to unleash the bellow and drive his staff through this bastard's throat.  Free everyone, right here, right now.  Perhaps the prince would help him.  Dasira, Fiora and Arik certainly would.

But the White Flames had only multiplied, ringing them now like a collar.  And some—maybe even most—of those hostages could never be freed.

Guilt closed on him like a fist.  He tried to fight it, but Rackmar was right; he'd been running around without consequence for too long.  Everyone else had suffered for knowing him—for even coming into contact with him—and for what?  No grand prize for their patience and help, just this wretched end.  Conversion and death.

He'd wanted both those things, once.

Maybe he'd been right.

Here they were, not even at the city's doorstep—nowhere near the Palace—and his journey was done.  His choices came down to his own execution, or the torment of those who'd trusted him.

“If I submit, you'll let them go?”

“Cob!” said Fiora, aghast.  He didn't look at her.  They had been through this before, in Haaraka, when Enkhaelen offered to take only him and leave the others alone.  Should he have accepted?  Would that have saved them from this fate, or would they have been dragged here anyway?

The Field Marshal grinned.  “I will release my control.  The ones who belong to me will return even without a leash, and those that do not...  They can run off into the swamp for all I care.  All I require is your skull for my mantlepiece.”

It's a fair trade
, Cob thought.  The Guardian would find another vessel.  He'd already known he was coming here to die, so what did it matter how?

Behind him, he heard Arik's faint whimper.  At one side, Dasira stood tense as strung wire; at the other, Fiora tried desperately to catch his eye.  Inside, the Guardian kept its stony silence as if it knew he couldn't be swayed—but it wasn't trying to escape either.  He found it strangely comforting.

Taking a deep breath, he raised the staff, then rammed its end into the white ground.  The fibers locked tight, twisting halfway up it like vines claiming a tree.  As he stepped past it, brushing the bark from his arms and shoulders, he glimpsed his friends start to follow.  He gestured for them to halt, and then did.

“Fine,” he said quietly, staring at the Field Marshal.  “I submit.”

The big man grinned viciously and jabbed a finger at the ground.  “On your knees, but keep the horns.  They'll look good on display.”

Cob's gaze slid upward, to where his cut antler had partially regrown, then shook his head.  “Once the Guardian goes, they go.”

“You can't be serious about this!” Fiora shouted behind him.

“Then cling to the Guardian,” said the Field Marshal as a white sword began to grow from his gauntleted hand.  “Cling your hardest or I will execute the rest of this trash after you.”

Halfway down, Cob eyed him.  “That's not the deal.”

“Do it,” the Field Marshal snarled, a feverish light in his eyes.  Cob thought to lunge, to gore him with these antlers he seemed to admire, but the man had been wise enough to keep his distance and already the white fibers were rising from the ground to fix Cob in place.  He could shred them away, but not quickly.

In his chest, the Guardian shifted uneasily.  It didn't seem afraid of the white sword, and for that he was glad; as much as they'd fought, he didn't want to be the cause of its destruction.  But when he went to swipe the bark armor from his neck, it grew right back.

Stop it.  Escape like you always do, just leave me the antlers if you can.

A shiver went through it, but if anything, it gripped him harder.  He thought of his father in there, and the sense of obligation—of love?—that had brought it to him in the first place.  Then a hand gripped his good antler, pushing his head down, and a great white shape loomed over him in triumph...

“Coming through!”

A wave of yelps and curses accompanied the call.  The grip on his antler jerked, and he managed to look up enough to see the Field Marshal's attention on the crowd, his face gone crimson with rage.  A gap had formed among the troops and hostages, with several on the ground as if shoved away and a few half-tumbled into the others.

Striding through the gap came Enkhaelen, hands raised to divide the way, white robe hanging open to show the black beneath.