Lark paid their way further with mage-lights at the head of the caravan. The effort of maintaining visibility on the ice-slick road was taxing, but the caravan-leader budgeted extra rations and hot bricks for her, and with Vallindas' guidance she learned to hold a hovering light ahead of the draft-hogs for marks at a time. Soon all the other caravans were following them, through a silent black landscape bordered on one side by the creeping edge of the Daecian Swamp and on the other by the rolling hills of Amandon's famed farmland.
The draft-hogs' pace wasn't much to speak of, but across the gently sloping ground, with little in their way but the occasional bridge or abandoned farmer's cart, they made what Lark supposed was good time. It felt like weeks, but in truth was probably two more days, before they left the frantic little farm villages behind and began their ascent into the Darronwayn foothills.
No one manned the border-post or the ferry station that crossed the Serren River. Fortunately it was hard-frozen, and though Lark clenched her teeth and gripped the driver's bench throughout the crossing, nothing untoward happened. The draft-hogs' trotters gripped the ice as firmly as the road, their bulky bodies pushing forward at the same glacial pace.
Fort Krol wasn't far beyond. Shrouded in forest and hunched behind a low palisade wall, it seemed more like a woodland outpost to Lark—certainly not a city. But beyond the gate stretched winding streets fringed by ramshackle wooden buildings, built against and atop and into each other like profusions of fungus after a spring rain. The occasional squat, broad stone structure showed among them, heavily scaffolded as if the wooden buildings were attempting to assimilate them; further in, more and more was built of stone until the actual fortress came clear on a distant ridge, bonfires lit to either side of its main gate. Fires speckled the whole of the city and even rose beyond, glinting from the tomb-cliff behind the fortress. Vyslin had talked that up as the resting-place of many a Darronwayn hero, with bones interred and effigies carved into the solid rock, but in this eternal night it was just another patch of distant stars.
The caravans drew to a stop in a large common yard, the cobblestones iced over but the trading-coster houses still showing lights through bubbly glass windows, the travelers' inns still doing business. Lumber stood in high stacks, awaiting loading, with armed guards puffing on cheroots nearby. It took Lark a moment to realize that in this weather, pre-cut wood might have shot up quite appreciably in value.
Lark debarked when her comrades did, stretching her spine and shaking out the tingles in her backside and legs. The caravan was scheduled to turn south toward Cantorin after a few marks' rest; already some of her followers were hugging each other or clasping arms, the Darronwayn preparing to disappear back into their forested heights.
Catching sight of Vyslin and Harbett engaged in some low argument, with the other Flames and Maevor standing by, she forced her weary body into motion and joined them.
“...can't stay,” Vyslin was saying. “I already told you, I don't want any more to do with the armies.”
“We have a duty to the captain and the company,” Harbett rumbled. “We've seen things no one else has—“
“Plenty have. There were eighty of us who marched from that piking swamp.” Raking a hand through his hair, Vyslin cast an exasperated look at Lark. “Tell this lug that we don't need me. Pikes, as soon as you report this to the Shadow Cult, the word will fly across the world.”
A muscle under her eye twitched at the derogatory term, but she suppressed her annoyance. “What I do in Bahlaer has nothing to do with your army. Don't rely on me to carry your tales.”
“See?” said Harbett with a swat to Vyslin's shoulder.
The lean little soldier scowled. While he had improved immeasurably since their escape from the swamp, he still looked drawn and hollow-eyed, and when he moved toward Lark it was with a slight but distinct limp. “Woman,” he said, “don't take their side. You and I both know we shouldn't be in the same space. You all go into the west; I'm heading back to my family. The Empire and the army can suck my lost toes.”
Lark made a face at that. “I'm not trying to keep you. For what it's worth, I'm sorry about your leg—“
“Oh, you're sorry? Your people piked my life, piked my career, and killed my friends—not just the ones who died right then but all those who went to the Palace like me, because we were injured or crippled or just piking scared. You didn't have to do that. Our company was as nice as we could possibly be to you, and your people bit out our hearts.”
She'd told herself she wouldn't fight with him, but she couldn't keep it in. “Nice? Nice? You crushed our Shadowland! You killed hundreds, maybe thousands of people who weren't even involved with us, just living in our area! Civilians! Children!”
“That wasn't us, that was that shitbag Field Marshal Rackmar!”
“Who cares? He's your boss, isn't he? What he does taints all of you, just like your piking Emperor and your nasty, sadistic Imperial Light. If you'd just kept to your side of the piking Rift—“
“That's not our fault! We're just soldiers!”
“Oh yeah? Did they force you to fight?”
“In a way, yes,” inserted Maevor. Lark glanced to him in surprise. “Their conditioning keeps them from questioning and hides specialists like me from their awareness. None of them knew, Lark. They thought they were fighting a threat to their homes and faith, and maybe it was preemptive but the enemies deserved it. They didn't realize they're...”
He trailed off, his expression going a mix of awestruck and sick.
“What?” Lark prompted.
“They're like harvest-men,” he said as if from far away. “Moved here and there to gather resources for the Palace. They take all the spare men from their homes and send them off to be consumed, converted, repurposed to the Empire's needs. Eventually they'll take everyone, and feed them all into that wide white maw...”
She realized he was shaking and immediately moved to steady him. He clutched at her like a drowning man, dead-grey under his Illanite tan, eyes round as marbles. “We're just hands and teeth,” he rasped. “I never thought— I never realized—“
“It's all right,” she crooned, pulling him into a hug despite her native distaste for touch. She'd learned to bear with it for Rian's sake, so she could manage it with a shabby, trembling man. “Shh. The Palace has collapsed. It's over. They can't do it anymore.”
The others looked away, perhaps remembering their own experiences. Vyslin was the first to shake free. “This is why I'm getting out,” he said, no longer hostile, just sober. “Look, if you have to know, it's the fake leg more than anything. My arm too, yeah, but my leg hurts all the time, even when I'm not using it. I can feel it pulling at me, like it's trying to eat me. When I rest, it's less bad, so...I'm just gonna go home. What else can I do?”
Stated that way, Lark couldn't argue. Instead, she looked to Harbett, Mendras and Talyard. “Is it the same for you?”
“Not so much,” said Harbett. “Just lost the foot. It feels strange, yeah, but not enough to stop me.”
Mendras shrugged. “I'm getting better. And Bahlaer is my home.”
Talyard just shook his head. He hadn't said much since the swamp.
Nodding, Lark gave Maevor another awkward pat then disengaged from him. “No one has to go who doesn't want to. And once we get there, no one has to stay with me. I'm returning to the Shadow Folk—“ If they'll have me. “—And I won't make any of you do something that discomfits you. But I swear that if you stay, I'll have a place made for you, no matter what my people think. This is bigger than just the Shadow and the Light.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Mendras. “I took bribes from you folk to spy on the Crimsons.”
Harbett elbowed him with a chuckle. The former militiaman responded with a shoulder-check. As they began taunting each other companionably, Lark turned away, running a hand over her braids as she tried to think of what still needed doing. Food was included in the caravan price, and their passage to Cantori
n was already paid, but...
Quick motion caught her eye: one of the Wyndish women running back to her group, a fearful look on her face. Lark checked where she'd come from and saw a handful of locals lingering by a travelers' inn, watching the caravan and their little crowd.
Distressed voices rose among the Wynds. Frowning, Lark started toward them and sensed Maevor fall in at her side.
“...erupted,” the first was saying as they approached. “It might still be going—no one's sure. A bunch of the western counties were being evacuated, Varence and Keilance and Corodess at least, and they said there's serious floods on all the rivers. And rioting in Thynbell.”
“Rioting,” a woman echoed in disbelief.
“Apparently… Apparently the Hawk's Pride was attacked just before Midwinter. It's in ruins now; that's why the Gold Army's been recalled. They say the border is closed, nobody's getting in or out except through the forest.”
“Hawk's Pride?” Lark cut in, hating her ignorance of the north.
The women turned worried looks to her. “The Citadel at Thynbell,” one said. “The Gold Army's mage headquarters. It...it blew up.”
“It can't have blown up,” chided another. “Who would dare assault us, the Corvish? They don't have that kind of power.”
“They could use the volcano...”
“If they hadn't before, then why—“
“The Dark—“
“Ladies,” said Lark curtly, “just tell me what's going on.”
“We can't go back,” said the news-bearer, wringing nervously at her borrowed blouse. “The border to Wyndon is closed and everything is under martial law. They say there's been rioting almost everywhere since Midwinter and it's just been getting worse.”
“The counts' faults, no doubt,” growled another. “I'll bet they started locking people up the moment they realized the sun wouldn't rise.”
“And what's this about an eruption?”
The news-bearer shook her head. “Aekhaelesgeria, It's always grumbled and spat, but it's far away, in Corvish territory. I don't understand how it can be affecting us.”
Lark chewed her lip, uneasy. First the Palace collapse, then the Darkness, then a catastrophic eruption? “So we can't get through to Thynbell. Will you be all right here? Or in Cantorin?”
The Wynds all traded glances, then the news-bearer said, “Apparently there have been refugees coming through the forest from Wyndon. We can find them, join them. Wait this out together. It's not the first time we've had martial law.”
“Last time all the rioters got conscripted or slaved,” muttered another. “What'll they do now?”
No one cared to speculate. Lark glanced back to find her men right behind her, listening. Her gaze lanced immediately to Talyard—tall, blond.
“You're Wyndish too,” she said. He nodded, expression stony. “You want to stay here?”
Another nod.
“All right. So.” She took a deep breath. “I'm going to try to reach my people. If I can't, we travel on to Cantorin—those of us who want it. If I can...are we ready?”
Mendras and Maevor nodded. Harbett looked uncomfortable, but after a moment did too.
“Let me go borrow a lantern, then.”
She got it from the caravan leader, whom she also warned of their possible departure—though not of the method. As a presumed mage, she didn't have to explain herself. She was going to miss that when she got home.
Though considering what she'd done so far, she supposed she technically was a mage.
Strange thought.
Picking a spot in a narrow alley between two rickety, overhanging wooden buildings, she settled down and unwrapped her borrowed scarf from her neck. A few quick tugs created holes in the knitwork, which allowed spots of light to leak through as she wrapped it around the lantern.
“O ye who watch,” she started, Maevor's knife in hand, ready to make the cut, “O thousand thousands of ancient eyes, hearken—“
The wall went black between the speckling lights. Lark sucked in a breath as an opening formed into swarming shadow, emitting whispers and a gust of tepid air. Multitudes of bead-like eyes stared at her from beyond, the razor-outlines of sharp black teeth glinting in the light.
Lark stared at them, surprised. They'd come quickly when she'd used the ritual by the Erestoia spire, but she hadn't expected it here. This was still within the Shadowless Circle.
An arm thrust out through the center of the seething mass, followed by the peak of an Enforcer's helm. Beneath it, a grimacing face: female, ruddy-bronze, one of the barely seen Hjaltari from the Shadow Folk's greatest physical-world bastion. Like most strong-blooded Kheri, her lips and eyes were full black, but she also bore a freckling of shadowmarks on her cheeks and along her throat.
She pulled herself free, swept clinging eiyets from her shoulders, then stared down at Lark in the unsettling pupil-less manner of her kind. “A mage,” she said, the flat words softened by her liquid accent. “And soldiers standing by.”
“Not a mage,” Lark replied, raising her hands peaceably. “An agent of the Kheri, Lark sa Bah-kai. I know it looks strange—“
“Quite.”
“—But I was Shan Cayer sa Bah-kai's second, his lieutenant. I got caught up in events with the Guardian and the Empire and was told to stick with it. I've come now from the Imperial Palace with news of the Emperor's fall, and with refugees from his service.”
The woman glanced toward Maevor and the White Flames, who thankfully hadn't moved. “I see.”
“I request asylum for them in Bahlaer. I know it's asking a lot, and I confess I've transgressed against our rules regarding magic—regarding many things...”
“This is no trial, girl. Lark,” amended the Enforcer. “Rise. We have been told to watch for you. Circumstances have...necessitated temporary changes in policy.” The glance she cast toward the men was cool but not hostile, just evaluating. “No open wounds, I hope.”
It took Lark a moment to find her voice. “No, Enforcer. So then they can come…?”
“I offer no guarantees about the disposition of the eiyets. It has been a busy week. You are fortunate that we've pushed our boundary this far—that we even can.”
“I know why,” Lark said quickly. “I'll explain everything. Is Bahlaer…?”
“Under threat, but we can take you.”
“All of us?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Just a moment, please.”
The Enforcer nodded, and Lark took a cautious step away, half-afraid that the shadowpath would snap shut if she left it. The men moved in at her beckon—except Vyslin, who stayed at the mouth of the alley.
“Tell the caravan-leader we've gone,” she called to him. “We're paid through to Cantorin, so if they try to deny the rest of us their seats...”
Vyslin gave her a thin smile. “I'll deal with it. And if you run into Blaze Company there...” Something like pain contracted his features. “The lancer lieutenant, Linciard. Tell him I'm all right. He's a soppy mop of a man but he deserves to know.”
Lark nodded slowly, not wanting to mention that Bahlaer's threat might yet be his comrades. “You keep safe. Get better.”
“Can't see how I could possibly improve,” he said, and grinned.
She snorted, then turned back to the Hjaltari, who beckoned her close. Other agents were stepping through the shadow-door, all in the armor of Enforcement, and she was relieved to see her men link up with them without a fight. Then the woman took her wrist and pulled her toward the hissing mass of eiyets, and she closed her eyes and let the shadows enfold her.
Tiny fingers pinched her skin, tugged her braids, scrabbled at her robe. She ignored them. The eiyenbridge seethed beneath her feet for a much longer transit than normal, but then it peeled away, her borrowed slippers hitting luminous white thread as the passage opened into the smoky ochre vastness of the Shadow Realm. Her companions came through in her wake and had the more aggressive eiyets swatted off of them.
> Then they were running homeward, and the weariness melted away. Lark's legs protested but she couldn't care less. In the distance hung the dark mass of Oretcht'ke, the Spindle, the center of the realm; web-like threads spun out from it in all directions, connecting each kai to its leaders and each agent to their comrades and friends. A near-comprehensive network of the world, spreading at last into the territory that had denied it.
She couldn't remember why she'd wanted to leave.
The euphoria lasted the whole way there. As they took a path that hooked toward another eiyenbridge, she felt her heart climb her throat. Bahlaer! Even if no one from the Shadowland had survived, there were her other contacts among the merchants, in the militia, and with the Trifold and the goblins and their elemental allies...
Another flurry of eiyets across her shoulders and scalp, pulling, nipping. Another door at the end of a hissing black hallway.
Through—
Out—
To stumble from behind a decorated screen into a tiny office, another woman rising from behind a desk: a lean and serious-looking Pajhrasthani Enforcer, with a black scar that carved her face from chin to cheek. Two more Enforcers stood by the office door, one far-southern dark and the other sullen, Illanic. Vaguely familiar.
Lark's guide pulled her toward the desk to make space at the shadow-entry. “Enforcer Ardent, our message came through?”
“One lost agent and three...specialists,” the Pajhrasthani woman acknowledged calmly. Her eyes weren't completely black, marking her as probably second-generation, but what would have been scorned among the thick-bloods instead gave Lark a sense of relief. It was hard to tell what a 'blood was looking at without at least that glimpse of sclera.
“If you require them moved to detainment—“
Enforcer Ardent cut off the guide with a shake of her head. “Thank you, this is sufficient. You've had no trouble?”
“Only with the eiyets.”
The Enforcer nodded, then gave a hand-sign Lark recognized as 'travel well'. Her guide mirrored it, then stepped back into the seething corridor, the rest of her team on her heels.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 51