The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (124 page)

Her hands fisted within the concealing sleeves of her robe.  She had no power here: no influence, a mere pittance of magic, and a water elemental that barely understood her.  The White Flames carried no weapons that she could steal, and even if they had, she doubted she'd be able to pierce their armor.  If the whole of the city and the road was made of the same stuff, she couldn't even run away.

How could I have thought that I could fight?

She imagined Dasira laughing at her for it, in that sardonic way the bodythief had.  Bitter, resigned.  Was that how she would end up: changed into one of those things?  Conditioned and controlled?

She'd thought the Kheri oppressive for their preferential treatment of shadowbloods.  But at least there she'd had the option to quit.

Quit...

“Hsst,” she said at Maevor, well-aware that the White Flames could hear.

He glanced over, questioning.  He'd spent most of this trek in a subdued state, staring at the ground, though occasionally he'd look up as if he'd caught a signal from afar.  His face looked wan in the city-light, washed-out and empty.

“How about we quit this?” she said.  “We're not dangerous or important, and we can't escape—plus we've been promised freedom once this is done.  Why do we need to be dragged into the Palace?  Me, I'd like to see the sights.”

His brows furrowed.  Beside him, one of the White Flame guards cocked its head as if listening.  “What sights?”

“You know...”  She gestured outward to the endless white labyrinth.  “The festival, the city.  Why come this far only to box ourselves up inside?  We've already seen the Palace.”

Still puzzled, he looked from her to the others ahead, following on the heels of the prince.  “You don't want to help your friends?”

“You do?”

“No, but I...”  He trailed off to stare at her again, an almost hunted expression on his face.

“They don't need my help.  I sometimes wonder if they ever did.”  The sour words stung as they left her mouth, but she continued, “This was never my fight.  I'd rather be a tourist here than a troublemaker.”

“It won't change anything.”

“So what's the harm, then?  Or do you want to go with them just to see what happens?”

Visibly conflicted, he looked to the White Flames.  None of them had made an aggressive move, still weaponless—a few clearly disinterested.  “I have been authorized to keep prisoners in my custody,” he tried.  “This woman was never formally remanded to the Field Marshal, and so—“

“Yes, yes,” said a White Flame, faceplate lifted enough to speak.  Lark saw white threads at the corners of his mouth and more waving like cilia on the inside of the helm, waiting to be rejoined with the rest.  “Typical wrangling.  Go sight-see.  We'll round you up if we need you.”

Surprised as she was, Lark immediately said, “The wolf too.  Arik, come with us.”

The wolf's ears twitched, but when he looked back, it was to shake his heavy head.

“Don't be foolish,” said Lark.  “You can't help Cob anymore.  We're done.”

A long, silent stare, then the wolf turned forward again.

She caught herself about to yell at him, and closed her mouth.  He adored Cob; she didn't.  He was the consummate loyalist; she had no problem jumping ship.  Ever since she'd left her family in Fellen, she'd felt rootless, dissatisfied, but she couldn't force him to feel the same.

She missed Bahlaer and Cayer and the
kai
, but some part of her wondered if she could ever call that a home.

“Have it your way,” she mumbled, then looked to Maevor.  He nodded, and together they slowed to a stop, letting the column move on without them.  A few others did the same, though no one she recognized, just poor saps who had been swept up in this.

As pilgrims spilled by to crowd out her view of her friends, she felt a twinge of regret.  She'd grown to like them—Dasira the most, somehow.  But they were very different people.  She'd already walked away once.  This time, she'd make it stick.

The two of them drifted to the edge of the road to avoid the crowds, and for a while they just stood there, looking in separate directions.  Lark didn't really see anything; her interest in the city was all feigned, and her eyes were foggy anyway.  She blamed the unnatural humidity.

After a while, he finally said, “Why me?”

She didn't look at him, just stared down at the canal below.  “You're not so bad.  And you don't love the Light as much as you say you do, else we wouldn't be here.”

“You're wrong.”

“No.  You love it like I love my mother.  I owe her.  She made me, raised me.  But she's someone I never want to emulate—one I can't even be near anymore.  She didn't think of me as a person, just an asset, and what I wanted or needed didn't matter.  I know how your kind are made.  You can't tell me it's not the same.”

Another silence.  Then he said, “Are you going to jump?”

After a moment's surprise, she realized she could.  They had used elementals like Ripple to survive in Hlacaasteia; maybe it could keep her head above water in the canal, help her swim.  Looking down its length, she thought she saw it flow into a tunnel near the outskirts of the city.  Did it spill into the swamp?

But what then?  Even if it wasn't the suicide Maevor implied, it was still a probable death.  She couldn't walk her way out of the swamp easily, and she'd never been alone in the wilderness.

“Are you?” she said.

He laughed, but there was something cracked about it.  “Maybe.  You're not right, but...you're not that wrong either.  I wake up some days and I don't remember anything.  Who I am, what I'm doing...  It all just feels like stories.  Like something someone told me and I adopted into myself.”

“You don't know who you were?”

“I think I volunteered to forget that.  It worked, but...too well, maybe.  The roles are fine—they give me shape—but when I try to see myself, there's nothing there.”

They stood for a while, staring down at the water, until finally she reached out and grabbed him by the sleeve.  “Come on, let's walk,” she said, and he followed without protest as she led to a spindly bridge and crossed into the city proper.  She didn't know where she was going or what she could do, just that she was tired of contemplation—tired of waiting for the end.

When his hand caught hers, she knew he was too.

*****

Dasira had to speed-walk to keep up with the Crown Prince's long strides.  At her side, Fiora did the same; from behind, she heard Arik's breath wheezing through his teeth.

Others in their entourage had fallen behind entirely.  She'd glanced back once as they started up the rise, but despite her keen sight she'd been unable to spot Lark or Maevor.  The rest of the prisoners straggled after them, spreading out their White Flame guards just as thinly.

It was an opportune time to fight free, but she knew she'd need the prince's help to get anywhere.

The incline was faintly tacky beneath her boots, making it easy to keep her footing.  In fact, she'd been feeling better ever since entering the city, each step injecting a thin rush of energy into her.  The Palace material in her torso felt firmer and stronger, all her threads vibrant, her mind clear.  As much as she hated to admit it, it felt good to be home.

Ahead, the Palace entry gaped like a mouth full of needle teeth.  They had overtaken many clusters of pilgrims along the way, but more struggled on ahead of them, just as determined to stand before the Throne as they were.  No guards impeded them; Midwinter meant free access to the Emperor for anyone who desired it and was able to tolerate the lines.

“How much further?” said Fiora beside her.  The Trifolder girl's face was red from exertion, one hand fixed on the hilt of the sword over her shoulder, the other fisted at her side.  Dasira was impressed she could keep up—but then, she'd been running with Cob for weeks now.  Who knew how much the Guardian had changed her?

“Don't know,” she answered.  “Layout changes from day to day.  Throne room could be near, or it could be at the ass-end of the structure.”

“It's at the middle,” said Kelturin from ahead.  “Maybe a half-mark, through the crowds.”

Fiora raised her voice for him.  “Can't you part them?  You're the prince!”

“I'm just another soldier here.”

Dasira smiled tightly.  That might be technically true, but she doubted any soldier would impede him without a direct order.  The White Flames held him in as much reverence as they did the Emperor.

Not that he'd either acknowledged or accepted it.  He wanted to be human; perhaps that was why he'd failed.  Cultivating his own fanatical following might have let him change the balance of this conflict, but that opportunity had been lost.

It was a relief when they finally surmounted the rise and stepped past the threshold into the Palace.  Dasira saw Fiora's face tighten as they left the sky behind, but the radiant walls energized her; she tapped a constant rhythm on Serindas' hilt, just waiting for the chance to use it.  The main hall ran broad and straight for a while before branching into a profusion of corridors, some curving away to reemerge as second-floor cross-bridges and others vanishing into the depths of the structure.  No signs or guides marked the way; pilgrims seemed to pick their routes at random, pushed onward by the press of those behind.

In contrast, the prince moved unerringly, cutting through the confused groups by virtue of his bulk and status.  As he passed, Dasira glimpsed pilgrims turning toward him until she got the feeling they were diverting the entire flow of the mob toward their goal.

Ahead, the paths continued to branch and converge at random, the crowds thinning down to handfuls of bemused wanderers.  Dasira wondered if it was always like this—the Emperor playing with his little toys, leading them in constant loops until he was ready for them.

How many of the pilgrims ever actually reached him?

So she was surprised when a familiar figure stepped out from a side-channel ahead of them, fiddling neurotically with her rings: Anniavela.  The lagalaina looked odd in white, too tawny-gold for such monochrome, with her neckline cut typically low to display her assets.

“Kel,” said the woman, “there you are.  I've been worried.  The Field Marshal passed by only moments ago, and—“

“Stand aside,” said the Crown Prince.

Startled, she did so, only to fall in line beside him as he passed.  Dasira found herself right on the lagalaina's heels, and the urge to stab went down her arm like a crawling itch.  Beneath her fingers, Serindas agreed.

“You can't mean to fight him,” said the lagalaina.  “It's foolishness.  I'm sorry for what I said before, but—“

“No, you're not,” said the prince without looking at her.  “You want back into my favor, that's all.  We've done this dance a thousand times.”

“I fear for you!  Those two, Rackmar and Enkhaelen, they're worse than they've ever been.  Something bad is bound to happen, and I can't let you—“

“You can't stop me.”

She grabbed his arm but he shook her off with a sharp motion, sending her backward into Dasira.  Instinctively Dasira raised an arm to brace the woman, her other hand half-sliding Serindas from its sheath.  It would be so easy...

But Annia made a pitiable sound of distress and tried to straighten, so Dasira just pushed her forward.

“Kel, please,” she said.

The prince picked up his pace.

Annia reached out as if to catch his arm again, but her hand faltered, then fell.  She moved aside as if to break from the column.

On impulse, Dasira grabbed her arm and hauled her along.

The lagalaina looked down at her in surprise, honey-colored eyes wide.  A glint of red reflected in them, and Dasira realized she still held Serindas half-drawn.  “Vedaceirra?” the woman gasped, falling into step with her.

“Dasira,” she muttered.

“Whatever you want to call yourself, dear.”  Then, flippancy giving way to concern, she said, “Why are you here?  What's going on?”

“Same as last time.”

“What, the boy?”  She glanced forward.  “That was him, with them?  I knew he looked familiar...”

“Was he all right?”

Her uncomfortable expression told Dasira enough.  Cursing under her breath, she let go of the lagalaina's sleeve.  “Get yourself somewhere safe.”

“I'm right, aren't I?  They've been at each other's throats for ages, and now—“

“Go,”

“No.”

At Dasira's glance, the lagalaina lifted her chin imperiously.  “I have a responsibility to the Crown Prince and the Empress.  If we are truly walking into a conflict at the foot of the Imperial Throne, then I must be there for Her Majesty.”

Dasira winced.  It had been so long since her last visit, and so long since the Empress had been sane, that she'd nearly forgotten her.  She would be up there on the dais in the second, smaller throne, smiling vaguely down upon the proceedings—no matter what they were. 

“You have to get her out of here,” she said.  “Before the Emperor uses her—“

“Against Kel.  Yes, obviously.”  Then the lagalaina's lips twisted with distress.  “You think he will join the fray?”