The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (53 page)

Still, she kept her hands near the hilts of her swords, because there was another possibility.

Her history lessons told her that Brancir was only half of the Metal Primordial.  That once there had been a greater entity which split itself apart over its conflicting desire for and fear of magic.  That the covetous half had reached too high and too far, and attracted the attention of something bright and terrible.  That all of the metal-mages died that day.

But not in Muria.  Not among the silver folk, because Brancir hated magic.

If these are mages, they can't be Muriae.  If they're not Muriae, then what—

A splotch of color and movement caught her eye, and she looked up anxiously.

There was a woman approaching.  An actual woman, breasts and hips and sway and everything, not some awkward elemental facsimile.  Fiora stared.

She wasn't pretty, exactly.  There was a firmness to her face that bespoke temper, and a clinical indifference in her gaze—permanently unimpressed.  Her dress was fine though, its color made murky by the pervasive red light but its embroidery reflecting like silver, with side-slits that showed dark leggings and high boots and a shallow neckline that showcased a torc with a ruby dangling between its ends.  Her black hair was caught back in a silver-mesh net, her skin darker than the Silver Ones' affectations.

“You came through the Grey?” she called as she drew close, in a whipcrack voice that reminded Fiora of Sister Merrow's.

“Um, yes,” said Fiora, pushing to her feet—then craning her head back.  The woman was as tall as Ilshenrir.  “Not on purpose though.  Your Muriae friends had to rescue me.”

The woman looked down at her with clear doubt.  “You're a Branciran?”

“Oh no, I follow Breana.”  Subtly Fiora tried to stand up straighter, pull her shoulders back, smile naturally.  She knew she must look terrible; it felt like ages since she'd washed, and her hair was a snarled mess.  With the group, it didn't matter, but in confronting this statuesque and imperious lady, she felt short and stocky and shabby.

“Breana...the young one,” the woman mused, then nodded slowly, eyeing Fiora from toes to top.  Then her gaze drifted past her shoulder to the silver sword on her back.

“The blade,” she said.  “Show it to me.”

Fiora frowned.  “Why?  Who are you?  I'm Fiora, by the way.  Thanks for asking.”

The sarcasm either slipped past the woman or she deigned to ignore it.  “I am Mariss, and I believe that blade is mine.”

Surprise pushed a laugh from Fiora's mouth.  “What?  No, that's silly.  —Oh, or are you a spokesperson for the Muriae?”

“In a way,” said Mariss.  “Give it to me.”  She extended her hand; the dress sleeve ended at the elbow, baring a wiry muscular forearm without vein or blemish.  Her fingernails were solid silver.

Fiora stepped back, only to bang her heel against the broken salt-pillar.  She was more than a bit trapped.  “What do you mean, 'in a way'?”

“They told me of the sword.  They know it belongs to me.  Give it.”

Shaking her head, Fiora tried to edge sideways, but the woman loomed close, difficult to circumvent.  “I can't.  We need it.  We're trying to—  I don't think I can tell you this.  You're connected to the Ravager, right?  Or wait, did he...  Um, the magic...”

Mariss frowned.  “What?”

“You—“  Fiora gestured vaguely.  “The folk of metal.  I heard from another metal person that you're all angry with the Ravager because of magic.  Aren't you?”

Bafflement showed plain on the tall woman's face, then turned contemptuous.  “You know nothing of what you speak.  Give me my inheritance.”

Two thoughts connected in Fiora's head.  “Inheritance?  You mean you're—“

A shout rose from the entry corridor, in a rasping language Fiora did not know.  Mariss looked there sharply, hand still outstretched.  After a moment, Fiora looked as well.

And saw the antlers.

*****

A snort resounded from the Great Wolf's den.  Arik came awake in a bare moment and lifted his head as the massive bloodied muzzle emerged from the darkness.

“I scent her,” the ancient spirit growled.  “Salt and sand and false light.  She is in danger.  We must go swiftly.”

Arik sprang to his paw-like feet, then lifted the bundle of Lark and goblin like baggage.  From within the layers of clothes, Lark gave a squawk of protest, but there was no time to listen; the Great Wolf was already padding into the woods, the spectral pack bleeding from the trees to follow.  Air elementals flickered into the realm around them, pulled through by Raun's will.

Girl and goblin in his arms, Arik pursued.

*****

Cob stalked forward as if daring the elementals to bar his way. 
Muriae
, he'd thought at first; they looked much like Enkhaelen's wife, though paler.  But Erosei and Dernyel at either shoulder told him otherwise.

There were three in the corridor, their silvery garments flowing oddly over and around their porcelain flesh.  A month ago, he would have been awed in their presence—or infuriated by the treason he'd believed they had encouraged in his father.  Now, he gestured briskly with the tectonic lever.

“Fiora—where is she?”  The words came out like a gargle, and he almost regretted using the water elemental as a breathing-mask.  He could see the fumes shimmering in the air though, the thin membrane of water keeping them from his eyes, his skin, his lungs.  He had never expected to breathe underwater while on land, but sometimes the Guardian's skills were handy.

The silver folk retreated at the same pace that he approached them, hands raised warily; one called into the chamber beyond in a harsh tongue the Guardian did not translate.

“No need for hostility, oh Great One,” said another.  “We are not your enemies.”

'Yes they are,'
snarled Erosei.

Cob doubted he could trust the Guardians' judgment; there was too much difference between their opinion and his own, and the silver people seemed disinclined to attack.  He focused beyond, to where he felt Fiora's presence.  From what he could tell, she was well, but there was a resonance in the air and floor that constantly scattered his attention.

Not to mention the flagship ahead.

With his hooves on solid stone, he felt it like a knife in a wound.  It penetrated deep into the skin of the world, its roots far longer than its reach—but he could tell by their haphazard splay that this was not purposeful.  There were chasms beneath it, damp and lightless, that could swallow the titanic spire whole.  As much as the clinging salts trapped it, they also prevented a quick descent.

“What are you doin' here?” he demanded of the silver folk as they parted, permitting him to pass.  “This's a haelhene place.”

“And we oppose them, Guardian,” said one, falling into step beside him.  Erosei fell back with a scowl to avoid being overlapped.  “We study them and their workings so that we can bring them down.”

'Lies,'
said Dernyel on Cob's other side. 
'They are apostates.  Magic-users.'

This is about elementals hating magic again?
he thought.  In response, images flashed behind his eyes of metallic spears rearing from mountaintops, of blinding light coursing down from the sky to immolate them and melt the peaks to slag.  Glowing shapes of hot metal staggered drunkenly in the after-strike or lay fallen, radiating weirdly.

He shook the vision away.  “Fine,” he told the spokes-elemental, “but y'have my friend.  I want to see her.”

“Yes, of course.  This way.”  The silver one quickened its steps to precede.

The corridor ended in a flight of ragged salt blocks that curved down to the floor below.  He squinted against the bloody light, gaze drawn first to the far wall and the wraith-spire trapped behind it, then to the stacked buildings, then to the many silver people emerging from them.  A quick count gave him at least fifty, with more still coming.

Off to one side was a small area of fallen pillars and jagged crystal.  Movement caught his eye from there: a waving arm.  Fiora.

His shoulders sagged in relief.  He'd feared they'd taken her prisoner, but she stood unhindered next to a taller woman, to whom she glanced anxiously.  For her part, the stranger watched him with narrowed eyes.

He'd planned to hold her gaze, but the moment his foot touched the salt-block floor, the nausea surged up again.  From the stone corridor he'd felt the hollow spaces that existed below and around the chamber, but now he realized they weren't hollow at all.  The black water filled them, silent and cold, separated from him by naught but salt.

Stop it
, he told himself. 
You know this is a thin place.  Trust your first feeling; it's not there.  That's just its shadow.  The realm-barrier must be holding it back, so as long as you don't reach for it, nothing will happen.

Still, he felt sick.  Every hair on his neck was up, every nerve tingling, and each sharp hoof-fall on the salt surface made him want to cringe.  Such a delicate thing to keep him out of the Dark...

“Guardian,” said the strange woman as he approached.  There was something familiar about her, but he was too agitated to start making assumptions—even about the metal he detected in her.  Instead, he gave her a curt nod and moved to brush past, to reach Fiora.

A hand clamped on his shoulder, nails biting through layers of bark and stone.  To his surprise, Cob found himself turned about, hooves scraping the salt.

“Guardian,” said the woman again.  Silver runes glowed through the skin of her arm.

“What?” he replied sharply, trying to shrug her off, but it was like her fingers had taken root in his armor.  Tectonic lever in that hand, he twisted it between them to push her away.

Instead, she struck with the other hand, embedding long silver nails in his side—his scar.

The pain doubled him over.  He felt it everywhere: face, throat, heart, balls, like electric needles under his skin.  Stone crumbled away from her fingers and he felt her clutch something ropy and vital, and thought for a moment that she had disemboweled him.

Then the Guardian jerked in his chest and he realized she had it by the tail.

He clamped his free hand over hers, suddenly certain that if he yanked away, she would tear the Great Spirit right out of him.  She twisted her grip and the new burst of agony nearly drove him to his knees.  “Get off,” he rasped, putting all his strength into another shove with the lever, but she just swayed with it; her arms were long, stance fluid, and she managed him as easily as a dance-partner, sigils lighting up under her robe and torc.

“
Breana!
”

A sword divided them, striking the hand that held Cob's shoulder with enough force to break the grip.  The woman recoiled, shaking her arm like she'd just shocked it; a bloodless flap of skin hung from the back of her wrist, revealing a thin silver layer over twitching musculature. 

Shaken, Cob brought the tectonic lever down at her other forearm, but she was too quick, her fingers unlatching from his side.  He tried to keep hold but she twisted her wrist, the skin sliding like a loose silk wrapping, and instinctive revulsion made him let go.

The woman stagger-stepped a few paces back then steadied, face fixed in an expression of cold focus.  She flexed her loose wrist and the skin tightened, then ran her hand down the other arm to cement the torn flap.  It sealed neatly.

The Guardian, no longer under assault, spread its influence over his skin again, drawing scales of hard salt up his legs and chest.  He took a deep breath through the water elemental, then clasped the tectonic lever in both hands and pointed the chisel-end at the woman.  “What kinda pikery was that?”

In answer, she just flexed her fingers, stained with his blood.

“I think she's—
mmph!
”

Cob turned immediately, but it was too late; one of the silver folk had crept up and grabbed Fiora around the waist and face, its arms splitting into myriad tendrils to contain her struggles.  “Stand down or we shall remove the female's protections,” it said.  “She breathes only at our sufferance.”

He saw Fiora try to shake her head at him.  Her sword-arm was bound down but her hand clutched spasmodically on the hilt, as if she could still fight.  But the threat was serious; he had no power over the metal-folk and nothing that would let her breathe.  The water elemental would be no help.

Forcing calm upon himself, he lowered the lever and said, “What d'you people want?”

The jailer looked to the woman.  Around them, the silver folk were converging, their false faces disappearing into their metal like pebbles in mercury—an obvious precursor to an attack.

“I requested my property,” said the woman, her voice clipped and cold.  “Your friend denied me.  I would have it.  I would also have the Guardian.”

“Why?”

“It is mine. 
They
are mine.  My birthright.”

Cob shook his head slowly.  Even with his suspicions, it made no sense.  “Maybe you could grab the Guardian, but that doesn't mean it's yours.  I'm usin' it right now.  When I'm done, you can pikin' well have it, but I don't think you're its type.”