The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4)

by H. Anthe Davis

  'Ardent says she has agents backing you up. Do you want them to—'

  No, no, she thought quickly. I don't want him hurt.

  'Then bring him over. I'll put him to sleep if nothing else.'

  You sure you want him nearby?

  'Tanvolthene can handle him if he gets physical. That's what Warders are for.'

  Lark sent an acknowledgment, then released one of Maevor's shoulders and gently attempted to guide him onward. He was still rambling, his gaze alternately faraway and fixed on her, and though she tried to keep up the eye-contact, a bad feeling had settled in her nerves. She caught herself scanning him for weapons, but there was nothing on his belt or in his hands and no glint of metal elsewhere. Just the ever-present danger of his bracer.

  He went along with her easily, and soon the ambassador's suite was far behind them. They drifted down empty corridors, all the soldiers and agents mustered elsewhere, his pace limited by moments of confusion in which he'd halt and stare off at nothing, almost as if listening. A suspicion curdled in her stomach but she had no way to test it, and no desire to confront it—not while alone with him.

  Instead, she tried to divert the chatter. “If not Maevor, who would you be?”

  He stopped in mid-sentence to blink at her. “Me.”

  “Yes, but who— No, what would you want that to be? A soldier, a bartender, a farmer, a craftsman, a poet… What do you want to do with your life?”

  His face furrowed. “I… I'm not sure.”

  “Because it's true that you're not Maevor, but you're not the person you used to be either. You're someone else, and it's up to you to decide who that is, right? It's not abnormal to change. Look at me: apparently I'm a mage now. So I think that if you want to fill up that hollow place, you need to decide who you want to be, and then work toward it.”

  A moment of thought, then, “An agent? I have always been an agent.”

  “Yeah, but that's what you were assigned to be. Doesn't mean it's right for you. I was supposed to be a dutiful daughter and settle down with a nice Zhangish man and give my mother a dozen grandchildren, but pike that nonsense. You don't have to be what they tried to make of you.”

  Maevor shook his head slowly. “But I am. I cannot change, and the Light is gone. You have been my beacon since then, but he says you're the same as the rest. Another handler, just working for the Dark.”

  Her hackles went up, but she worked to keep her tone light. “You've had many handlers?”

  “No. Not for a while. We were doing well, me and Kyleen. But before… And now they're back, and I don't want to be handled, but if I've no other purpose...”

  “We'll find you something,” she said quickly, but she didn't like the options. Interrogation and execution seemed all too possible right now. That angered her; she hadn't dragged him here just to die! Not like Rian and Dasira, and probably Ilshenrir…

  She had her regrets. She didn't want more.

  They were almost to the meeting room, where Enforcer Ardent and Scryer Mako and the rest of the communications team should be. She'd get Maevor settled, they'd deal with his 'handler', and—

  He halted so abruptly that she tweaked her arm trying to pull him. Wincing, she let go and rubbed her shoulder through the thick fabric of her robe. Beneath the sleeve, Ripple shifted its weight in time with her motions. “What is it?” she said, taking in his listening pose.

  No, not listening. As she watched, he lifted his upper lip and inhaled through his teeth, gaze fixed on nothing. He held that pose for a long moment, then flicked a look down the nearest passageway, an odd expression on his face.

  “What?” said Lark.

  “Someone is calling.”

  “You can hear them?”

  “No. Not hear. The Call is...” He opened his mouth wide, and she gaped as thin fang-like fiber structures slid down from behind his incisors. “Chemical,” he finished. “Someone is Calling for help.”

  Mako, did you hear that? He said someone's in here, trying to contact him.

  'I heard it, but… Hold on.'

  Unnerved, Lark tugged at his arm, trying to get him moving. All the specialists but Maevor and the prisoner Rallant had gone out on the mission, but why Rallant would be calling for help…

  Is there something going on in the lock-up?

  'No, Ardent says the eiyets say Rallant is still just sitting there in his cell, doing nothing. And even if he was trying to send out some message—who to? Your friend?'

  No, Maevor's confused too.

  'Just get here. Ardent is sending more eiyets out to check the area.'

  With a nod for no one, Lark hauled Maevor onward, heart pounding despite the silent emptiness of the halls. Even when she turned the corner and spotted the meeting room door, she didn't feel safe until she'd hammered on it and felt the ward lower, seen it open on Tanvolthene's concerned face.

  Mako, seated at the head of the table with Izelina at her right hand, gave Lark a nod and gestured toward another chair crammed in the corner. “Put him there. I'll check in a moment, I'm just trying to get an explanation from a scout.”

  Lark nodded and turned, meaning to do as asked—but all at once Maevor was out of her grip, lurching forward like a jointless puppet with arms outstretched, hands grasping toward Mako.

  Ward-light flashed past her before she could even cry out, catching Maevor and slamming him against the far wall. It molded itself to his shape, stilling his struggles, until all that moved was his chest as he gasped raggedly for breath.

  “Thank you, Edar,” said Mako calmly. Tanvolthene inclined his head.

  “Bloody pikes,” Lark swore. “Sorry, I didn't think—“

  “Don't worry. It's not unexpected, though I didn't see a hook in his mind when I first checked him. Specialists are accursedly hard to read.” Rising, Mako brushed off her robe then strolled up to Maevor, eyeing him over. Lark automatically fell in beside her. “We won't hold it against him. He's obviously having an identity storm, so it's not really his fault. Hard to fight mental control when you're not...” She trailed off, eyes narrowing.

  “What?” said Lark.

  Instead of answering, Mako reached through the ward to touch Maevor's forehead. His eyes rolled toward her hand, but he didn't speak, just twitched in his bonds. After a moment, the mentalist frowned. “The control is gone, but there's no hook.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “No, but it means he either came in contact with the mentalist directly—and recently, which is impossible—or he was just as recently in contact with someone who was hosting the mentalist. Someone else with a hook. And we know he hasn't been to see Rallant. The eiyets would have reported it.”

  Lark frowned. “He said he's been talking with the other scouts...”

  “Do you know which ones?”

  She shook her head, looking to the trapped bodythief. “No idea. Not sure if he does either. Like you said...”

  “Identity storm. Yes. But if one or more of the scouts is an enemy agent...” Mako grimaced. “Pikes, I didn't think about it. I was so focused on the Seethers.”

  'Ah, there is a problem,' came another voice through the gestalt link—the Gejaran Lahngi, only recently joined. 'I am seeing mages under veil, flying past our position. Three—no, four…'

  'Going where?' sent Mako, moving quickly back to her seat and the scrying mirrors.

  'I am not familiar with the topology of this city. Here.'

  An image bloomed in Lark's mind: Bahlaer from a perspective of flight, traced gently by the half-moon's light, its windows and glazed tiles reflecting tiny glints. Ahead, dark sky and faint shimmering presences, invisible to mundane eyes; below, a splay of residential buildings petering out quickly to warehouses and yards.

  Something about it made Lark's mind itch with familiarity, but it had been too long. Not sure, she thought at them. Ask Ardent? No, she's not local…

  'Her third is, and he's in the earhook network,' sent Mako. 'Referring it to them.'

  The ge
stalt subsided into silence. Lark saw Ardent, cloaked in eiyets, lift her head as if listening, but that conversation couldn't reach her—and for the moment, she was glad of it. She wanted just a few more breaths of peace.

  Staring at Maevor in his prison, though, she knew the time for that was gone.

  *****

  Captain Sarovy stopped in his tracks as he received both the image and the message.

  “Sir?” said his escort. He held up a hand to silence her.

  'Not sure,' came Enforcer Ticuo's voice through the earhook link. 'That could be— Wait. That's the Sandcastle to the left, and the river on the right… Shit. Chisel Ridge ahead. They're flying toward us.'

  The words resonated through him like a shock. For the duration of their cooperation, no one had named their position—not until a fraction of a mark ago. The coincidence was too great.

  'Do we have anyone who can intercept?' Enforcer Ardent sent.

  'I can head topside, but I'll need a guide—'

  “Hold positions,” Sarovy snapped, cutting the scryer off. “Lieutenant Vrallek, apprehend Scout Telren immediately—terminate if he resists. Enforcer, drop Rallant. We are compromised. I repeat: we are compromised.”

  'The scouts are already off, sir,' came Vrallek's thought. 'We're not far out from the garrison, can see it now…'

  'I can send agents to grab the scouts; we can see them clearly through the Realm.' Ardent. 'But not if they're already past the Seethers' wards.'

  'We have another scout—er, bodythief here in custody, Maevor. Should we— Hold on.' Yrsian. 'Lahngi says six mages now. I need to get up top.'

  “Hold positions!” He couldn't sweat, but he still felt that sick tension—the sensation of being outflanked. His thoughts rattled around, making him grasp for them, trying to shove them into a coherent form. Just moments ago, he'd known the battlefield, but now all he could see was the broken bricks and the flames. “Terminate compromised personnel. Vrallek, Arlin, back off of the garrison, get under cover. Apprehend all scouts. Get the elementals topside for anti-mage efforts. Yrsian, we need portals—portals out of Chisel Ridge, portals and shadowwalking right now. For everyone.”

  'Captain, what—'

  “Get everyone out of there. All levels. Seethers, civs, troops, now.”

  'We don't have enough shadowbloods. But I'm on it.' Ardent. Nemirin.

  Yrsian: 'Captain, you think they'll try that structural attack again? Those take time to set up. If we disrupt them on the ground, we don't have to evacuate.'

  “Elementals disrupt. You make portals. Do it, scryer.”

  'Yessir.'

  Reluctance flavored her thought. Unease and aggravation flickered through all the others'—the lieutenants and their first sergeants, Enforcer Ticuo's—but not Ardent's. Thank both Light and Shadow for her.

  Sarovy forced himself to take a breath, to fix his jumpy mind on the facts: three points of compromise. Rallant, who knew Blaze and the Seether debriefings but little about the complex, nothing of the surface. Bodythief Maevor, whom he'd denied an assignment or any sort of meeting attendance but who bunked with the scouts.

  And Telren. Scout Telren, always there but rarely noticed, using that see-me-not talent they all possessed. How many private briefings had he lurked in? Did it even matter? Information security hadn't been a priority with the surviving Blaze personnel, and everyone had gone through Yrsian's mental checks.

  Distract us with Rallant, let us think we know the enemy's capabilities…

  I was wrong. I've endangered us.

  “Topside,” he told his baffled escort. “The quickest way. I need to—“ Be sure it's not happening again. It can't be happening again. “Need to get my eyes on the enemy.”

  To her credit, the agent nodded and struck off down a side-tunnel. He pursued, seeing again the White Flames at the corners of the Shadowland block, the mages weaving their spells, his own feet rooted in place. He wanted to believe Yrsian's assessment—that it couldn't happen now that they knew how it worked. But there were already too many mages for this to be Seething Brigade's action. If the Field Marshal was here…

  'Uh, there's a force coming out from the garrison,' sent Vrallek. 'Must have seen us. We're still pulling back, but— What in pike's name is that?'

  'Ogre?' Lieutenant Arlin.

  'That's not an ogre, that's— Festering shit. Back off, back off! Ahergriin, back off!'

  Sarovy flinched. He knew that word. According to the specialists, ahergriin were the remnants of those who failed conversion, their flesh conglomerated into monstrosities that were used to hold the northern border against the ogres and Kroviks.

  Now sent here. As if this little scuffle was as important as defending Daecia City.

  I don't understand.

  And in that confusion was his error, his failure of imagination. If he didn't figure out how to fix it, it would eat his company alive.

  He took the stairs three at a time, the agent struggling to keep up.

  *****

  'Careful, Lahngi,' came the scryer's warning, but he just grinned into the wind. Beneath him, the construct's leather wings undulated, painted sigils flaring when necessary to augment its flight. To the side, the rest of his kites awaited their turn to fly from the rack.

  He was veiled and so was the rack, though not enough to stand up to scrutiny; at his back, his puppeteer's wheel flamed faintly through the illusion. Fortunately, stealth wasn't necessary. The six mages he was following had yet to slow or glance in his direction, just kept converging block by block toward what he'd been told was the position of the underground base. The scryer reported it was being evacuated, but that seemed silly. Six mages could do some damage, but not through a hundred feet of rock and concrete.

  Because it was real rock here at Chisel Ridge, not the layers of sunken old buildings that served as the foundation for most of the city. He preferred an attunement to the element of air and to flying spirits, but even from on high he could feel the solidity of the land below.

  So he was confident that he could disrupt this business quickly and be back in time to beat Regna. She'd reported monsters at the garrison then fallen silent, but through the gestalt link he could feel the distant intensity of her focus, the faint tug as she drew on the group's energy to empower her strikes. Ham-handed as always. She'd never learned precision.

  Not like him. With a gesture and a twitch of the charms on his bracelets, he awakened two of the kites and loosed them from their rack, his puppeteer's wheel brightening as he guided them arrow-like toward the nearest mages. They weren't his best combat models, but his new comrades preferred to capture rather than kill—and for that, these were ideal. Their long leather wings and tails meant they'd wrap around their victims like straitjackets, the cancellation sigils on their undersides nullifying any wards or active spellwork. So trapped, few non-mentalists would have any tricks left, and would be easily taken into custody.

  One of the veiled mages noticed its impending doom and veered, but the kite followed it. Lahngi noted two more turning toward him and activated kites for them too, then slowed his glider in anticipation of conflict. If there had been fewer, he would have shot in among them happily, but six meant he needed to be defensive.

  The first kite struck its target and latched around it. Another engulfed one of the mages that had turned toward him; the third aggressor dodged the kite-strike and arrowed toward him to retaliate, and he pulled its kite into pursuit. The fourth was too busy taking evasive action to spare any attention for him.

  He grinned. Barely a few moments and he'd cut the enemy ranks in half.

  Touching the bone charms stitched to his robe, he activated their protections. Spirit-eyes opened behind his own and streamers of energy rippled out from him, drawing cloud-serpents to his beckon. The approaching enemy had still not dropped its veil, so he couldn't guess at its defenses, but—

  A lance of burgundy light broke the concealing spell and cut through the air toward him. He reacted too slow, but a
serpent took the blast for him, the radiance refracting away through it as it was blasted to vapor. He blinked through afterimages, and the breath caught in his throat.

  It wasn't a mage.

  Unfurled in the air like a mutated floral arrangement was the darkest-colored wraith he'd ever seen, burgundy-violet with touches of green, its light radiating out from a scaly bud at its center. Even as he yanked his glider around, it reached its hook-covered compound petals for him, each dividing and unfolding further and further until he was fleeing an attenuated petal-spider.

  Wraiths, he thought at the gestalt, wraiths—

  Then he felt a kite break—then another, rent from within by forces beyond their tolerance. A white shape flashed below him, expanding in stiff jerks like breaking porcelain. Another thin white needle arced above him like a diver.

  The third kite hit its target, then shattered. He had no time to curse. As the porcelain wraith shot up and the diver struck down, he veered hard, slamming through the grip of the spider-flower by sheer force of wards. A single hook caught his shoulder, gashing through robe and charms and muscle—then he was free, clinging desperately to the spine of the glider as his right arm went slack and useless.

  Porcelain shards snapped the air behind him, their incandescence throwing his shadow hard ahead. Another wraith flared up to blockade him—this one water-blue, rippling like a molten glass mirage—and he hauled the glider further right and just barely escaped it.

  As he leveled off desperately, he realized he'd gone a full circle. Ahead, the final two wraiths had de-veiled, showing themselves as a shivering mass of spring-green candle-drippings and a white crystal sunburst. Their undulations made parts of them blink in and out of view, a constant shift of material and energy through their manifold dimensions.

  Four at his back, already gaining; two ahead.

  I'm boxed in. I've got nothing that works on wraiths.

  Panic clutched his heart, but he'd trained himself against the paralysis of terror on the Krovichankan line, against other foes. He latched onto the one real weakness wraiths had—the ground—and pushed his glider into a dive, toward the dark warehouses and yards of Chisel Ridge. The metal elementals would emerge soon, ready to fling themselves upon their hated foes. All he had to do was fly low, bust open a door and hide—