The lens-wearing ogre looked to the stout woman in bafflement, plainly not following. She just planted a fist on her hip and gave a nod. “Ve throw more vood on the fire,” she said, then turned to the lounging children and rattled out a series of orders in Gheshvan. Several rose with sounds of complaint, but there was no lack of eagerness as they scattered to their tasks.
With that, she sashayed through the clutter, kicking aside the occasional cushion or toy, and pulled open the grate of the oven. Turning small dark eyes on Cob, she said, “Let see hyour fire friend.”
Arik scuttled over, trailed by two youngsters with eyes fixed on his tail. He set the bundle on the oven's ledge, then unwrapped it carefully to reveal Enkhaelen, still as charcoaled and inert as before. The big woman prodded his blackened chest with her cane, made a thoughtful sound, then said, “Pitch him in.”
At a nod from Cob, Arik slid Enkhaelen in above the burning logs, pushing and turning with gritted teeth until he fit. A child rushed up with an armful of firewood and he took it piece by piece, laying a proper pyre around the inert necromancer.
Flames crackled. Children stared.
“How long vill it take?” asked the stout woman.
Cob shrugged.
“Vell, sit down. I get hyou something to eat.”
By the time Enkhaelen started to stir, Cob was halfway through a bowl of bean porridge. He'd managed to wedge it against his chest with the crook of his stump and was spooning it awkwardly left-handed, vines uncooperative—not that he wanted their help. Bad enough to be waiting for Enkhaelen with an audience. Arik had packed away three sausages and was now laying on his side, pretending not to notice the children grabbing at his tail. Every time it whisked away, the youngest toddler gasped and giggled, and the big stout matriarch gave a marginal smile.
Then all attention snapped to the oven as from within its fiery depths came a yelp and a virulent curse. Cob winced apologetically, but no one seemed to care. They just stared as the flames roiled, shifted, then parted to expose an ash-pallid blue-eyed face.
“You know,” said Enkhaelen slowly, “this isn't very comfortable.”
*****
Half a mark later—having extricated the necromancer, brushed off the char, fed him, warded him and crammed him back into his clothes—they were at the door again. Cob and Arik both wanted to stay, but Enkhaelen had insisted once he'd learned where they were: on the outskirts of Gernaaken, evidently Gejara's capital.
“We've come this far. We can't linger,” he said as he clutched the family's lantern to his chest. He'd had Cob disburse payment as he saw fit, which to Cob meant an entire handful of coins; though brief, their welcome and help had been vital. The matriarch tried to give it back, but Cob busied himself with sword and pack and raised his stump to show he couldn't take it.
“Consider it the down-payment for damages from anything that might follow us,” said Enkhaelen, drawing Cob's scowl.
Then they were out into the frigid night, to the raywing still waiting in the shed. Enkhaelen laughed when Cob explained its presence. “Haelhene can't see well so close to the ground, and certainly not in the dark. Would be just as easy to ambush me, I fear.”
They clambered on and, at Enkhaelen's insistence, Cob aimed toward the city.
It was much bigger than Cob had expected, not just covering the little ridge where he'd seen the first lights but filling the valley below with brightness and color. No outer wall blocked their way, and they passed a sprawling expanse of snow-clad farm terraces and sturdy cottages before the buildings began to tighten together on the decline. The path was lined with radiant half-spheres on poles, red and orange and white in the oppressive night, and many buildings hung their own lights before out-thrust antechamber doors.
Magic, Cob figured—a thought borne out as the structures changed from wood-frame to stone-block and then to solid extruded stone at the valley floor. The complexity rose along with the magic, the painted patterns of earlier walls becoming carved, then elaborate, then profuse and baroque to the point of eye-strain. Every formed-stone surface held faces, flowers, trees and symbols; from each cornice leered another strange creature painted in shades that even the warm glow of the mage-lamps could not soften. And he'd thought the Illanites were colorblind.
As for the people, some still strolled the wide streets despite the cold, or gathered beneath the lamps or at odd decorated upthrusts that Enkhaelen identified as warming-posts. They were all well-layered and mostly tall, their garments as lavishly decorated as their houses. Heads turned as the raywing floated by, but no one seemed bothered by it. As pedestrian traffic gave way to sleds and carriages pulled by steaming stone constructs or great northern deer or swirling wisps, Cob understood why.
Slowly the streets pinched closer and the buildings arched higher, looming and interlinking like an old-growth forest. Lights glinted from random places, illuminating patches of street or shining up at the chins of leering statues; doors swung open to disgorge merrymakers from sheltered taverns or suck weary travelers in to the welcome arms of home. Signs proclaimed their wares in three languages, only one of which Cob knew—and that only sketchily, enough to sound out a word here or there and wonder what a 'library' was.
Abruptly, a great grey wall loomed before them, its whole four-story face and overhang etched with palm-sized sigils. Beyond the frozen wave of it, he glimpsed towers: tall and wild, splitting and branching and fractaling out in a dizzying wraith-like array.
Two guards stood by the open gate at its base. Like the wall, their armor was covered in sigils, their tabards too, and as the raywing approached, one made a gesture before her face that made her eyes gleam.
“Aekarlis Anakvykhagi to see Drakisa Rhiniharsla,” Enkhaelen said before either could speak.
They glanced at each other, then their expressions went distant. A moment later, they nodded as one. “Third circle, sixteenth spire east, ninth floor,” said the woman.
“Thank you.”
After that, Cob just followed Enkhaelen's directions, turning this way and that among the towering spires until he had completely lost track of their route. Moonlight shone off windows and reflective panels but there were no street-signs, the streets themselves more like footpaths wandering through a mad stone forest. If not for the flexibility of their mount's wings, it would have become swiftly impassible; as it was, the raywing fluted an agitated note the more it had to turn up its edges to pass through. The other traffic thinned to nothing; now and then Cob glimpsed movement on the balconies and bridges above, but no one roamed this far down, and no doors showed at the thick bases of the towers, only smooth sloping ramps.
Everything blurred with exhaustion. By the time Enkhaelen had him rein in, he was nearly asleep, and even the trek up the ramp passed like a foggy dream. Only when a slash of light touched him did he blink his eyes wide to stare at a door as it slid open unnaturally. A woman stood there, sturdy and olive-skinned and baffled, and when Enkhaelen said, “Snowfoot, you look well,” she barked a laugh and raised a fist as if to hit him. Then she beckoned, and laughed again incredulously when he said, “We left our raywing below—could you have it seen to?”
Then there were warm rooms cluttered with shelves and papers, books, bric-a-brac, low couches and tables, mirrors and picture-frames—none with a picture in it. Small stone creatures scuttled about, carrying brushes or pushing books back into place, and the plaster walls were covered in ornate Gheshvan writing.
The woman led them to a circular room dominated by an equally circular lounging couch and a big table. “Looking at you, I should put down towels first,” she said, only a slight Gheshvan burr to her Imperial, “but go on and sit. I'll have rooms prepared, then we can discuss whatever this is.”
With that, she swept from the chamber, leaving the three of them to settle awkwardly on the couch.
A glint caught Cob's eye from his left hand as he did so, and he blinked, remembering the silver ring still crammed onto his pinky. He pulled it off w
ith his teeth and held it out to Enkhaelen, who blanched and snatched it away, sliding it back into place.
“Thank you,” he said roughly, then gave Cob a sharp second look. “What did you do to your arm?”
What came from Cob's mouth wasn't a laugh, nor even a snort—more a choke. His lost hand burned with phantom sensation as he was reminded of it. “Your daughter. She showed up and stabbed me.”
Enkhaelen stared. “Again? What did you do this time?”
“Me?”
“You must have done something.”
“I was tryin' to defend you!”
“Well clearly I didn't need it, so you shouldn't have gotten in the way. She chopped off your arm?”
Cob exhaled through his teeth, then said, “Ask Arik.”
The necromancer's attention snapped to the wolfman. “She followed us,” said Arik. “Snuck up, floating. Demanded you. Cob tried to use Serindas, but she stabbed him in the arm and he collapsed. Arm started festering.”
“Why would it do that?” Enkhaelen broke in, then flailed a hand. “Never mind, I'll check it once I've rested, see what I can do. Then what? How did you get away?”
The wolfman shrugged. “We didn't. She prodded you. Seemed disappointed. I think she wanted to fight. I told her she couldn't capture you or the wraiths would just take you away, so she...” His gaze slanted away as if considering lying. “She put a splinter in me and left.”
Enkhaelen blinked and reached out for him, then hesitated, fingers hovering just above the wolfman's furry brow. “Is it active? Can you… Does she speak to you?”
Arik shook his head. “Not yet, but I can feel her there, under my skin. Watching.”
Cob saw those soot-stained fingers tremble. A long moment passed, then slowly the necromancer lowered his hand, and said in a measured voice, “Perhaps we let it stay. If she wants a proper fight, I owe her that much.”
Annoyed, Cob said, “You're not gonna fight her. Y'can't pikin' stand up in the cold, and we've gotta put the Seals back first. You're not allowed to put y'self in danger.”
Enkhaelen barked a laugh, ice-colored gaze sliding back to him. “Cob, this entire excursion is 'danger'. We've only reset two Seals and already you've lost a limb and I've nearly been executed. It won't get any easier. What's the harm of adding my daughter to the pile of in-laws and zealots already after my hide?”
“What's the— She wants t' tear the Ravager out of you! She almost pulled the Guardian from me!”
“That's my girl.”
“I'm serious!”
“You always are. It makes no difference, Cob. If she comes to fight me, I'll...” His expression went strange, hollow, as if the idea had just caught up with him. “I'll...”
Cob grabbed him awkwardly by the collar. “You will not surrender t' her. I see it in your pikin' face, you asshole. You will not roll over and let her kill you.”
For a moment that empty distance remained in Enkhaelen's eyes. Then he focused, a snarl curling his lips, and grappled at Cob's hand with feverish fingers. “Don't touch me!”
Cob shook him once, then let go and leaned away from retaliation. “Mission first,” he snapped. “Fixin' the Seals and bringin' back the sun. Y'can jump on her sword later.”
Though Enkhaelen glared, he didn't deny it. In his eyes, Cob saw the memory of the Palace wall, the long centuries of frustration and grief.
I don't like you, he thought, but I get it.
“Shaidaxi,” the Gejaran woman intervened suddenly, and Cob looked up to see her in the archway, hands on her hips. He had no idea when she'd returned. “Why don't you go take a nice shower? Get that...everything off of you so you don't ruin my guest bedroom.”
“I hate water,” muttered the necromancer.
“Too bad, dear. Go shower, it's right down the hall.”
“If you think you can order me around, Drakisa...“
She snorted and flipped her braid over her brocade-covered shoulder. Her robe looked more like a tapestry than a garment, every inch covered in scenes of snowy forest, but metallic threads glinted here and there, hinting at the protections stitched beneath. “Save the threatening tone for your enemies, little man. This isn't Valent.”
“If it wasn't for me—“
“I would still have a job and a seat on the Council. Go. Wash. Oh, and use the greyish soap, it has pumice in it.”
Enkhaelen made a horrible noise and heaved himself upright, bracing-spells flickering along the backs of his legs. For a moment Cob thought he'd throw a tantrum, but Drakisa's stern look never wavered, and finally the necromancer stepped over Arik and past her, grumbling imprecations all the way.
“You do know how to use artificed plumbing, yes?” she added as he stalked into the hall.
“I'm not an idiot!”
Cob blinked after him, then up at Drakisa as she leveled a matronly look upon him. “You're next, young man,” she said. “You're filthy.”
“Sorry, ma'am.”
She gestured dismissively. “It's to be expected, traveling with him. I'm amazed you've come this far.”
“So...y'know who he is? What he is?” Cob ventured.
Drakisa gave a wry smile and moved to settle at the other side of the table. A geode with metal spider-legs immediately scuttled down the wall to set a cup and saucer before her, then more before Cob and Arik, while a short humanoid statue hobbled ponderously out from a different hall, bearing a tray with a tea-service.
“Of course I do,” she said calmly, awaiting it. “Not everyone in Gejara is a devout spiritist, but we all know the tales. We'd thought Aekarlis lost until I found him in Valent—and wasn't that a surprise?—but he was just as interested in making connections with the Senivaten as we were in hearing his story. Not that he's told me everything, I'm sure.”
“And you… Y'don't have a problem with a mass murderer usin' your spare room?”
“Well, I admit I'm not happy with his recent actions.” She lifted the teapot from the slow construct's grip, poured for everyone, then selected a bowl from the clutter of delicate dishware and spooned some inky sugar into her cup. A gesture invited her guests to do the same; Cob hesitated, but Arik leaned over immediately to sniff at the construct's burdens. “But we understand that it is his nature. If we do not blame the Winter Graces for their hunger for warmth and life, how can we blame the Ravager for ravaging?”
“But he's human. Was human, at some point.”
“Was he?”
Cob blinked. “'Course. The Ravager and Guardian both need t' take mortal vessels.”
“Does mortal mean human?”
“Well, no. And he's got fire-blood in him, sure. But Jeronek—one of the old Guardians—he was nearly a quarter earth-blood. I remember that. And he wasn't nearly such an ass.”
“The Guardian and the Ravager are different, dear.”
“I know. But I mean, he did all of this on purpose. If y'can't blame him, are y'jus' gonna stand by and let him do whatever he wants?”
Drakisa sighed, the cup paused halfway to her lips. “Young man, how would we stop him? Killing him won't do it, and trying to exert some influence over him… I saw him eat one of my colleagues, Van Varrol. Literally open his shining white maw and eat her. Whatever he was before he became the Ravager, he is not human now. I know he acts like a spoiled brat, but it would be wise to think of him as a tornado with a plan and a malign sense of humor.”
Temporarily resigned, Cob sank deeper into the couch cushions with his plain cup of tea. He'd had only the barest success in moderating Enkhaelen's behavior, and the next Seal was among the Silver Folk of Muria: his wife's people, who wanted him dead. They would not be so philosophical about it as Drakisa Snowfoot.
He wished he still had the Guardian to guide him. Perhaps it was just as well; Mariss would have torn it from him when they met in the mountains. But he didn't know how he could face Kerrindryr now.
Part 8
Interregnum
Chapter 18 – Lights and Shadows
/> A few days made all the difference in the world.
Lark and her companions had entered Keceirnden ragged, wretched and starving. Thirty-odd candlemarks later, they left in good order, wearing serviceable hand-me-downs and glutted on several good meals which Lark had paid for with magic. She hadn't intended to, except the innkeeper had all but demanded it, fists on her ample hips as she discoursed loudly about the threats to the city and her livelihood now that the Light was gone.
Lark's first instinct had been to ignore her or storm off, preferably slamming a door. It had been a long time since someone had talked to her like that. Instead she'd taken a deep breath, swallowed the memories of her mother that it had provoked, and tried to listen. After all, the innkeeper wasn't angry at her.
And with Vallindas' help, she'd figured out how to do what the woman asked. Wards on the doors and windows to keep out the chill; tiny lights in the kitchen and the common-space and along the hallway to cut down on the need for candles.
Vallindas provided the patterns. Lark just powered them. The mazes of shimmering lines and figures the wraith projected were almost too much for her to follow, but they worked: the apertures were sealed, the chambers lit. The spells would persist, Vallidas told her, for as long as there were people nearby from which to sip energy.
That work had bought food, clothes, and passage on a caravan heading west for all fifteen of them: Lark, her five White Flames, and the nine other Wynds, Darronwayn and western Amands who'd chosen to come along. She'd tried to contact the Shadow Folk from the inn, just in case, but received no response—and so they had loaded up and gone.
Traveling by caravan through the utter dark was strange and slow. Though the caravan-drivers weren't pleased to be on the road, they all affected a gloomy acceptance of it, and at the city gates it became clear that they weren't the only ones. While other parts of Keceirnden burned or rioted, the path to the west was clogged with wagons, the gate-guards not even bothering to check for contraband. A quick exchange of coins and they were waved on into the snow-clad night, the mother moon's gibbous face their only welcome.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 50