The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (13 page)

Hands braced on his desk, Linciard just stared at his former lover, wondering what he'd ever seen in this man.  Finally the giggles turned to wheezes, and the wheezes to recuperating breaths, and Linciard said, “I hate you, Cambriel.”

“This...  This is what I have to deal with all day, every day,” said the corporal, clambering awkwardly to his feet.  “Ow, my sides.”

“I'm pretty sure you bring it upon yourself.”

“Fie.  I'm a paragon of virtue.”  Vyslin flashed him a grin, eyes gleaming with gleeful tears, and Linciard reflected that it would probably be best to throw Vyslin off the cliff first, or else hear his laughter echo back forever.

It would be a tough fight.  Vyslin was wiry and quick and mean as an adder, even in the throes of humor.  His smirk was etched so deeply into his face that it might well have been part of his skull, and the big Darronwayn eyes that made him seem initially endearing could flash hot with hate in an instant.  As he raked his short hair back, the edges of black tattoos peeked out from beneath his sleeves.

“Seriously, you haven't explained?” said Linciard.

“What am I, their father?”

“Their corporal.”

“I can't help it.  You know my tongue.”

Linciard gave him a dirty look.  They had been together during the Jernizan campaign but parted by mutual consent, Vyslin's promotion from lancer to corporal providing a smooth exit from a relationship that had grown toxic.  Vyslin liked to hone his wit on others' hides and Linciard couldn't stand to be a whetstone; Linciard held grudges and cultivated enemies and Vyslin just laughed everything off.  They were much better now that they were apart.

And still Linciard wanted to throttle him.

“I swear, I
have
tried,” said Vyslin, swiping at his eyes.  “But they still think they can buy the women outright, as brides.”

“Look, if you can't handle them, I can shuffle people around.  I heard that crack Tycaid tried to make...”

Vyslin shrugged.  “That's half my fault.  I mince it up just because they react.”

“Cambri...”

“I know, I know.  I should set a proper example.  But it's not like I got here on good behavior, and I won't even ask what you did to become lieutenant.”  Linciard stared at him until he said, “I'm kidding.  I'm kidding, you know I respect you.”

“Do I?”

“Erolan, shit, I—“

From down below came the bang of the great doors, accompanied by shouted questions.  Linciard straightened; he knew trouble when he heard it, and he'd rather face that than resurrect old problems.  “That's Lieutenant Shit to you,” he grumbled as he stalked to the door.

Vyslin snorted, and then they were out to the hall, to the balcony, to the stairs, to join in on this newest fiasco.

Chapter 4 – Conversion

No matter how much she prayed, Ammala Cray could not find answers.

“Be at peace,” said the woman beside her, who called herself Vriene Damiel.  Pale and placid, she seemed almost comfortable in the white robe she had been put into, though by her words she belonged in a Trifold Mother Matriarch's brown dress.  At her side lay her husband Sogan, his head in her lap, her fingers soothing his heavy brow.  He was unselfconsciously naked, having torn his robe apart when he shifted forms to try to mangle their captors—yet even in the form of a great bear he had failed, and lapsed back into human shape and this deep gloom.  Now he stared at the white wall without expression, trapped as the rest of them.

Ammala grimaced and let her hands fall from their position.  “How can I do so when there is no hope for us?”

“There may yet be,” said Vriene, but her smile was sad, and her gaze moved from Ammala to the old woman, and then to the children.

Ammala looked to them as well.  Her mother-in-law, Maegotha Cray, slept heavily at her side, parchment-like eyelids flickering erratically.  One wrist was roughly splinted, but around that, her bony arm showed the bruises of their captors' grips—too strong for mortal men.  Her children huddled a few steps away, whispering to each other: Izelina and Aedin, one thirteen, the other ten, both with their dead father's determination etched on their faces.

It hurt her heart.  Like her—and Vriene, and Maegotha—they wore prisoners' robes and nothing else.  No slippers, no undergarments, not even their protective braided cords.  All they'd owned was gone, leaving them entombed in this exit-less white chamber.  Whether they were here to await some punishment or simply to starve to death, Ammala did not know.

Her children wanted to fight for their lives.  But if Sogan the bear could not triumph, how could they?

“Ammala.  Seek your calm center,” said Vriene, offering a hand.  Ammala clasped it and tried to derive some comfort from the priestess's presence, but all she felt was fear.  For herself; for her children; for her homeland; and for all those who had been brought here before her.

In this, the Imperial Palace, so many others must have met their doom.

“The goddess can not see us through the interference of our enemy,” said Vriene, “but we can never belong to him.  If we die, we will return to our place in her heart.  As long as you remain true in your faith, you can not be separated from her, nor from those who share your devotion.”

“I want to believe that,” murmured Ammala.

“It is a part of the Gods' Pact.  They can not keep those who belong to another.  Yes, we face our end here, but only our mortal end.  Our souls will go on in her keeping.”

Ammala tried to smile, but it felt deeply rueful.  The priestess meant well, and she appreciated the honesty; she was just glad the children weren't listening.

“And perhaps...”  Vriene trailed off, drawing Ammala's eye, but the priestess was just looking at the nil space where the door had once been.  “Perhaps this is not death,” she said finally.  “One of my sons is here.  Malin, my youngest, who had been declared lost.  I saw him only briefly, in that terrible armor, but...  We have never known much of the deep workings of the Empire.  Perhaps there is a chance.”

“Perhaps,” Ammala echoed, but she couldn't believe that either.  This place was too strange—too alive—for her to hold out hope of escape, and its inhabitants too fanatical for any hope of leniency.  She barely knew why she was here.

Because she had sheltered that boy Cob?  Because she had shown a modicum of resistance to that Crimson officer?

Such petty reasons, and now her youngest daughter had been torn from her, and her eldest son slain, and the two who remained of the six she had borne might well die before her eyes.  She wanted to clasp them to her chest, to weep, to beg for their young lives, but she knew that any such act would break her.  She had to be strong for them, and dignified, for there would be no mercy.

A ripple passed through the chamber, and she yanked her hand from Vriene's in alarm.  Like startled hares, all the others went still and watchful, except for Maegotha who twitched awake and sat up with a garbled oath.

The place where the door had been suddenly dimpled outward, then split into an oblong opening.  Voices drifted in.

“—father's orders all the time?  Never once deviate?  This is nonsensical and you know it—you have to.  The conversion rate is one in ten, so if all our armies—“

“Your Highness, please.  We have a task.”

“I know we do.  But—“

Ammala rose slowly.  From the gap in the wall, a row of blank white helms stared at her, but behind them were two bare-headed men: a tall, handsome blond and a scarred old fellow with a white right eye.  The old fellow beckoned curtly, and the front-line soldiers entered the chamber.  Since Ammala was already on her feet, two simply bracketed her, while others hoisted Maegotha and Vriene and Sogan up.  One each took custody of the children.

Through the gap, the blond man stared aghast.  “This is the task?  Women and children?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“No, leave them there.  We need to talk with my father—“

“Highness, you may be the heir but within the White Flame you are a mere lieutenant.  You can not give me orders.  I speak with you as a courtesy only.”

“I don't accept that.  And if you try to put me in a cell again...”

“We are allowed to discipline you, Highness.”

“Because that piker Rackmar said so?”

“Because your father authorized it.  Please.  I do not mean to antagonize you.  I am only doing my job.”

“Can't you see what this job is?”

“Sacrifices must be made, Highness.  You know that.”

Redemption through service; purification through sacrifice
, Ammala thought sourly.  The foolishness that boy Cob had believed.  The soldiers nudged her forward, and she lifted her chin and obeyed; she would not entertain them by resisting.

The others made way, the un-helmed men moving to the fore.  “Is this Rackmar's idea?” said the blond, and she suddenly recognized the name: the grinning, bearded man she and her family had been presented to in Bahlaer.  The one who had claimed her daughter Jesalle.

“He is our commander,” said the one-eyed man blandly.  “Most everything is his idea.”

“He isn't even here.  You don't have to—“

“Highness, I will report this.”

“No, no—  Actually, yes.  You report to Rackmar, I'll contact Enkhaelen, and we can get all of this hog-crap sorted.  So put them back in the cell.“

“Highness...”

Ammala's brows arched.  The blond man kept casting looks back at them.  He seemed youngish but perhaps it was just the transparency of his emotions.  They were written all over his face: discomfort, anger, bitterness, guilt.  Unlike the others, whose armor seemed form-fitted and somehow organic, his was white-enameled metal, and it creaked as he shifted on his feet.

“I'm serious,” he said.  “I want to call a formal court session.  This is my empire too.”

“I'm not sure your father would see it that—“

A roar filled the hallway, deafening at such close range.  Startled, Ammala lurched forward as the area behind her became a sudden frenzy of claws and fur, white swords and armor.  She heard Vriene scolding in a high voice and Maegotha shrieking imprecations, but when she turned, the hall was too full of bear to see either of them.

Or the children.

Her heart leapt.

A soldier grabbed her by the arms and shoved her face-first against the white wall.  Luminescent, it yielded to her slightly, like a firm cushion.  She wanted to kick and twist and scratch and spit at her captor but already her shoulders burned from how he'd twisted them, so she watched with one eye as the White Flame soldiers brought Sogan down again, his great bulk constricted by tightening white nets.

Beyond him, Vriene stood composed, a soldier gripping each arm.  Maegotha was in another's clasp, kicking and hollering, and down the hall another man hoisted Aedin by the waist to carry him back to the group.  Yet another White Flame jogged toward the far bend in the hall.

Izelina was gone.

As the commander cursed then began to bark orders, Ammala hazarded a smile.  They were condemned and helpless and far from home, but perhaps one of them could escape.

Perhaps one would be enough.

*****

“Well no, this isn't what I expected when I signed on, but it's better than the alternative,” said the black-robed man across the table.

Warder Geraad Iskaen forked another piece of scrambled egg from his plate and offered it to the goblin in his lap.  Still shy of this whole situation, Rian nevertheless bit the food off the tines, then curled his long hands even tighter into Geraad's robe.

“And what was the alternative?” said Geraad, trying to resist the urge to pry into his companion's thoughts.

The man—Tarren Enwick, as he had introduced himself when Geraad had moved in next door—sighed and planted his misshapen chin in an equally malformed palm, twiddling his own fork between fingers like sausages.  They sat at the quiet end of a long stone table in the commissary, where everything still smelled of sulfur but less so and the heat was almost bearable.  The balcony over the magma chamber was a good three rooms away, and sometimes a tepid breeze came through the vents in the ceiling to disperse the stink.

“Death,” said Enwick.  “Painful, lingering death.  The kind not even that healing goddess or the Light can stave off.”

“Death by—“  Geraad gestured toward his face, not sure how to address it otherwise.

“This stuff, yes,” said Enwick, reaching with his better hand to trace the boundaries of the dark masses.  Bulbous and veined, they covered the right side of his face from brow to chin, sealing his right eye and deforming that side of his mouth into immobility.  The nodules and discoloration continued down his neck to the collar of his robe and further.  “When I answered the call, it wasn't this ugly.  But it was painful.  It isn't now.”

“Is it numb?  He numbed it?”

“No, I feel everything, it just doesn't hurt.  And I have to say that's pretty good payment even without the benefits.”

Geraad looked to his own hands, then the goblin in his lap.  For the past several days, he had been living as a 'guest' of Inquisitor Archmagus Enkhaelen, who was also the necromancer Morshoc—and also the grand architect of the Citadel at Valent.  This chamber, as well as the rest of the complex, had been shaped into the bowels of the Citadel at the time of its raising, and seemed to draw power from the lake of magma that had provided its building-material.  A lake that was supposed to have been cooled.

Just one more lie in the great deception he had uncovered—but none of it with a clear purpose.

Like this: the commissary full of black-robed, deformed and growth-riddled individuals, male and female, from nearly all the lands he could name plus several ogrekin and some suspiciously furry folk.  All eating their overly sulfuric eggs and porridge and drinking their tea, chitchatting as if it was normal to be here in the basement of the Silent Circle, in service to its most treacherous enemy.

It made Geraad's head hurt.

If I had a lick of good sense, I'd leave
, he thought, but his healed hands anchored him here.  Every time he looked at them, he remembered the Gold Army's torture and the Circle's inability to protect him.  He needed answers—not just to why he was alive and mended, but why Rian was alive, and why Enkhaelen had taken them in without imposing any bonds.

What he wanted.  What he expected them to do for him.

“You regretting your choice?” said Enwick.

Geraad looked up into the knowing gaze of the misshapen man's good eye.  “I...  No,” he said, not sure of the truth.  “Just confused.”

“He takes in strays, you know.  You look like you count.  Mentalist, right?  Which is strange, because he hates mentalists, but maybe you're special.”

“He controls the Inquisition, how can he hate them?”

“It's more like 'he hates them, so he controls them'.  Don't you think?”

Geraad looked away.  Out of the whole crowd, he was the only one not in black, the only one visibly normal—and the only mentalist, easy to tell by the complete lack of mind-shields.  And though Enkhaelen controlled the Inquisition and its mentalists, he wasn't one himself.

He wasn't even readable.  No shields, just emptiness.

“But he controls you too,” said Geraad.  “Doesn't seem like he hates you.”

Enwick chuckled, thick and liquid in his malformed throat.  “He doesn't control us, he shelters us.  You think we can go around looking like this?  A couple of us, yes, the ones who don't have it all over their faces, but the rest...”  He shrugged lopsidedly.  “There's only one thing he wants of us, and we're all willing to give it, else we wouldn't be here.  The rest of the time, this is a hospice, not a cage.”

“And what does he want?”