She tried to get up, to go to them, but her legs wouldn't let her. A twinge on her arm sent her gaze to her sleeve and the faint outline of Maevor's bracer beneath it. She traced her fingers over it, unsure whether she needed to hide it from her caretakers or not; did the others think she was Maevor now? At her touch, its leathery surface shivered a little, and its hooks relaxed.
"It's all right. We're both fine," she murmured, then took quick stock of herself. Someone had hung the wraith-crystal back around her neck, its light faint and somnolent; someone else had placed a bowl of water beside her, from which Ripple rose like an inquisitive snake. She held her hand out to the elemental and let it twine around her wrist and squiggle up her arm, settling finally at its usual place on her shoulder.
Allies accounted for, she checked her fingers and toes: all there, all mobile. Beneath the bandage, her right hand held two small pale scars—one where the crystal-spike had gone in and one where it had come out—but they didn't seem to impede her.
Again she tried to rise, but a wash of utter exhaustion pressed her back into the bedding. Her eyelids sagged, then popped open from sheer will. She didn't want to go back to—
The next time she woke, it was to the insistent throb of her bladder. She managed to gain her feet, though gravity still pulled at her. A Bahlaeran Shadow agent—someone she knew but was too hazy to name—lent her an arm and together they found their way to the facilities. She waved off help once there; she'd rather fall into the septic pit than require assistance to piss. Thankfully, neither happened.
By the time she returned to her pallet, a Trifolder had shown up with soup. She sat cross-legged to eat, balancing the bowl on a lap-board that felt far too slippery for her peace of mind. Every time she spilled, Ripple sucked it right up and dripped it back into the bowl; she wasn't sure whether to be disturbed or appreciative.
Distantly, she could feel the rest of the gestalt at work, the tethers still connecting them. There was Mako, asleep elsewhere—some private room. There was Presh, tired and cranky, and Voorkei, translating for someone. Izelina felt active but drowsy; Lahngi and Regna were both awake, engaged in a card game nearby. Drakisa, only haphazardly connected, was the node from which another fainter network spun.
No one seemed fearful or endangered. There were no shouts from outside, no clash of arms. For a moment, blinking slowly, she couldn't remember what had put her here.
But then it rushed back, clenching her stomach and raising the soup back up her throat. The malformed monsters, the whips of black water, those visions of possible selves... She swallowed thickly, the spoon trembling in her hand.
Vallindas? she asked, and felt the wraith's faint weary presence tingle across her skin. She wasn't sure if it was inside of her, like the Haarakash bore their second souls, or still in the crystal or in her robe or just settled on her like a mist. No matter which, it was a comfort, because that was how she chose to see it.
The card game tugged at the edge of her thoughts. Half of her wanted to get up and go be with people; the other half still felt like a slug with legs. As her stomach settled, she drank down the last of the soup, then decided reluctantly that she needed one more nap. Just a short one, so she could be bright-eyed and sharp against her opponents.
Setting the bowl and lap-board aside, she curled up, and went down once more.
*****
'Ardent's back.'
The words jerked her awake, blinking. Not Izelina's mind-voice but Mako's, exhausted but steady, making all the other gestalted mages perk up. 'Meeting in half a mark at the vigil-site.'
Vigil? thought Lark.
Around her, the bunkroom was almost empty, only a few sleepers still curled up under blankets. She got to her feet with tolerable ease and pulled on the slippers and coat someone had left her. She wanted a bath like nothing else; despite its dirt-sloughing properties, her robe couldn't keep the rest of her clean. She hadn't redone her braids in ages either.
Time for that later, she told herself, and hobbled toward the door. All the gamblers were gone, the hearth-fires banked low, so it was no surprise when she pushed through and found everyone outside.
The festive air was a bit of a shock. Her building was right at Rakut Center, overlooking the fountain square, and despite the huge chunk that had been taken out of the northeast corner and its streets, it looked like everyone involved in the recent fighting had gathered here. Tables lined the edges and ringed the fountain, stacked with kegs and tankards and pots and bowls; street-vendors' carts were out, coals lit, soup bubbling and sausages frying. Braziers spent their precious heat into the air, lanterns and mage-lights shedding their glow over the gathered faces—Shadow and Imperial, Gejaran and Bahlaeran, Trifold, goblin, elemental. The night buzzed with conversation, argument, laughter, and the milling of hundreds of bodies.
Bewildered, Lark drifted out further. It didn't feel like she'd slept that long, but the mother moon was thinner than she remembered, and the faces around her were relaxed. Sad, some of them—teary-eyed—but with none of the tension she'd expected.
What day is it? she thought at the gestalt.
'Sycinel 24th, we think,' sent Scryer Mako. 'Hard to tell—not even the Shadow Folk are sure.'
How long ago was the fight? The teleport-block?
'About two days. How are you feeling?'
Confused.
'Well, me too. But it's safe right now. Full updates at the meeting.'
Where's the vigil-site?
'Down in the pit.'
Lark blinked, then squinted toward that dark mass of earth and rubble. There were lights bobbing across it, she realized: more lanterns, more wisps, more people moving around amongst the wreckage.
Frowning, she skirted the bulk of the crowd and headed that way, trying hard to ignore the scents of mulled cider, spiced meat and steamed buns. She couldn't imagine that Bahlaer's supplies were in good shape, but the people needed their moments of relief—plus the Shadow Folk had their own stock, and would be sharing.
She picked her way to the pit's edge and found a set of hastily-constructed steps leading down. As she descended, shapes began to loom out of the gloom: huge, careful piles of broken boards and smashed furniture, old bedding, roof-beams, carriage wheels, firewood. Atop each pile lay four or five cloth-shrouded shapes that she recognized with a jolt as bodies, some petite, some exceptionally large. Most, though, were man-sized.
There were a dozen of these piles set up in the belly of the bite, waiting to become pyres. Workers cycled in steadily from the ruins, bringing scavenged wooden debris while metal elementals strained their spider-like bodies to remove the bricks and stones. The closest ruins had already been cannibalized to the foundations, their unearthed cellars visible in the shifting glow of the wisp-lights. Meanwhile, a thin stream of mourners threaded through the darkness, pausing to lay sachets and offerings at the base of each pyre.
“We were lucky,” came Mako's voice from behind her.
She looked up to find the Scryer at the top of the steps, leaning on a makeshift crutch, with Presh and Voorkei bracketing her like bodyguards and Izelina trailing behind. The ochre wisp that lit them showed dark circles around her eyes, deep weariness etched into her face, but she bore the earhook-network necklace again and managed a crooked smile. “Apparently the wraiths took off as soon as the teleport-block went up,” she continued, exhaustion adding a rasp to her voice. “Flew right through it, haven't come back. Drakisa's crew torched the big monsters, and we and the Shadow Folk got the rest. Well, mostly. Still some scuttling around, I hear—White Flames and ahergriin. The goblins and the metals are on it.”
“So...we won?”
Mako grimaced. “Sort of. The captain's dead. He went after the Field Marshal alone and lost. Lieutenant Linciard's missing—captured, we think. Twenty-five of the Riverwatch team fell, mostly mind-shocked Seethers but several infantrymen, several ruengriin who were blocking the ahergriin away from the rest of them. The Trifolders got in there, but...they can't
help the specialists, right? Not with anything more than bandages. And the ruengriin don't feel pain. Apparently a couple just bled out before anyone noticed. Houndmaster Vrallek almost did too. He's taking it hard.”
She nodded toward one of the nearest piles and Lark looked over, throat tight. Several big shrouded bodies crowned it, and in its shadow knelt another, the sad grey shapes of two hounds shivering beside him.
Lark swiped quickly at her eyes. She hadn't known these men well—had hated them on first contact—but that didn't matter. “Are many of them left? The Blaze soldiers.”
“Yeah. It's not as bad as it could be. Headcount says we lost eighteen of our original crew, plus twenty-seven of the Seethers who joined up—shitty business, that old conditioning. If I'd known we'd be facing ahergriin, I wouldn't have approved them. And Tanvolthene...” She trailed off, gaze going distant, but Voorkei settled his big comforting hand on her shoulder, and after a moment she swallowed and covered it with her own. “Anyway, everyone's been helping. The Trifolders lost some people too, but they kept our death-count down. There were a lot of bad injuries they've fixed up. Without them and the ruengriin, we'd probably have been stomped. As for the rest of our Seethers, we've been petitioning to keep them, but the Shadow Regent's had them locked up along with the ones they dredged out of Old Crown. Don't know what's going on with that yet.” She managed a rueful smile. “So. That's what you missed. Oh—except that Ardent's been gone.”
“Yeah, I saw her fall into the Dark, and you said there's a Regent?” Lark started back up the steps, frowning. The last thing she wanted was the Regency taking over Bahlaer, but considering the state of the kai, and the fact that technically they'd been in control since Cayer fell, she supposed she had no grounds for complaint. Yet. “Do you know which one it is?”
“Ardent's mother.”
Lark blinked. “Well. That's interesting.”
“Yep.”
When Mako didn't elaborate, Lark raised her brows like a prompt, but the mentalist just smirked and nodded back toward the festivities. Lark glanced that way to see another cluster of people approaching, orange Shadow lanterns painting half of them in color and the other half as splotches of black. She recognized a few faces: Enforcer Ticuo, Enforcer Zhahri, Drakisa Snowfoot, Mother Matriarch Lirayen, the Lord Governor and his aides, the remaining Blaze Company lieutenants. Enforcer Ardent.
But beside Ardent walked a bow-lipped, ink-eyed woman who could have been her stately elder sister. She wore a high-necked gown in the typical black-on-black shadowblood style, no doubt covered in fine detail that only 'blooded eyes could see, with jet beads glinting along the bodice and jet combs holding back her thick, glossy hair. Her bronzy skin was several shades darker than Ardent's, and her eyes were whiteless, her lips and nostrils and the inside of her mouth completely black. At her back were two heavy, thorned wings that looked cut from the midnight sky—the sign of an eiyensuriel.
Lark had seen them before, but she'd never been introduced to one. They were the honored dead of the Shadow Realm: Kherus Morgwi's daughters and some grandchildren, granted a second life to stand in service to the family. Most spent their time deep within the folds of the Spindle, doing who-knew-what; others held seats in the Regency or high posts in the Offices. Under normal circumstances, they couldn't cross the boundary into the mortal realm.
“Lark,” said Enforcer Ardent as they approached, giving her a marginal nod. She looked rough, her cheeks welted, her mouth pinched into a tight line. The belt across her hips held only the standard Enforcers' truncheons, not the kukris she usually carried. “Regent, this is Lark of Bahlaer-kai, Shan Cayer's lieutenant and liaison to the goblin city. Lark, my mother, Regent Ereshti Anmari.”
Still wobbly, Lark knew she couldn't curtsey, so just inclined her head the best she could. The Regent regarded her a moment, full-black eyes inscrutable, then smiled. “You helped defend against the bite,” she said, her voice a smoky purr. “Our thanks, though we dislike your method.”
“I've learned some magic, but my loyalty is still to the Kheri,” Lark replied, though honestly she wasn't so sure.
“Good,” said the Regent, and offered her hand. Not just her nails were black, but her fingers as well, as if she'd dipped them to the last knuckle in ink. Dark patterns covered the rest of the skin and ran up under her lace-frothy sleeves. “You will be useful to me, now that I have taken this city under my wing. We will rebuild it in our image.”
Lark flicked a look to Ardent, but the Enforcer didn't return it. Nor did the gathered leaders object, though from the Blaze lieutenants' expressions, they weren't happy. Only Mako met her gaze with anything other than resignation: a quick wink.
“Of course. I'm at your service,” Lark managed, forcing herself to reach out and clasp the Regent's forearm.
Inside, she was screaming. Bad enough that the Enforcers had come in; they'd just been muscle, there to do their job then get out. But arrayed behind the Regent now were agents with Overseers' badges, and Collectors, Distributors: the formalized Offices that Cayer had ignored in favor of assigning his folk to their strengths. Worse, they were all shadowbloods, perhaps a practical move but one that always pushed out the bloodless and those too thin of heritage to shadowwalk.
She wished she could object—could push her will into these proceedings and keep her people from being sidelined. But she'd been separated from them too long, and even in the time since she'd returned, she'd been embroiled in mage business, goblin business, soldier business—anything but Bah-kai's. She wasn't sure she could call herself their representative anymore.
I need to remember where I came from. Reconnect. Oh Shadow, I've failed so much—failed them, failed Maevor, Rian, everyone…
The world swam before her eyes. She felt her knees buckling and knew she was about to fall—could see herself pitching down the stairs to land insensible at the base of some pyre. The Regent released her like she was some tainted thing, and she was tipping, crumpling…
Another hand gripped her by the upper arm and hauled her back to her feet. She blinked up into Enforcer Ardent's grim face, then stumbled along as the woman pulled her up the steps to the solid lip of the bite. The others gave way with varied measures of grace.
“Steady now,” said Ardent, close—then louder she announced, “She's not well yet. I'm taking her back to bed. Start without me; I'll return soon.” Her mother gestured dismissively, and she tugged at Lark's arm. Lark reluctantly obeyed.
They were halfway to the tavern when the Enforcer's steps slowed. “It's a problem, I know,” she murmured, “but right now we have no choice. We were in over our heads, so I had to call her. If I'd done it sooner, maybe she wouldn't have taken this from me.”
Lark blinked at her. Up close, those dark welts showed not just on her cheeks but around her neck where the uniform collar didn't cover, like she'd been flogged or half-strangled by something. “You couldn't know this would happen.”
“Regardless, we piked ourselves. We were arrogant—I was arrogant—and we almost lost everything for it. We're just fortunate we have powerful friends. But look, it's not over yet. This isn't about just Bahlaer. We need the sun back or the Dark will piking eat us. I need you to help me convince my mother and her minions to back the captain's original plan. Not just free Illane from the Crimsons but break that Prince out, assault the spire at the Palace… See beyond the Shadowlands for once.”
“You think they wouldn't?”
“I think they believe this is like the first Long Darkness, where all they had to do was hold their territory and throw gifts to the clamoring masses. They dredged me from the Dark and have been raking me over the coals for...what day is it? Because they think I entangled myself too much in something that isn't our business. But it is, because it's everyone's business. We know what started this Darkness, we know what maintains it, and yes, it's not something the Shadow can touch, but that doesn't mean we can isolate ourselves and hope someone else fixes it. If the Regents adopt another
wait-and-see policy, it will cripple future efforts. We have to be active.”
“But if we can't touch it...”
“Someone can. Enkhaelen maybe, or the Gejarans, or some other power we haven't met yet. We need to be open to it—to cooperate like we did with Blaze. The captain wasn't wrong, he just had too little to work with. If we let my mother have her way, we'll all be scattered back to our separate groups or stabled away like civilians. She's already planning to send the soldiers home.”
Lark glanced back at the crowd of mourners and revelers. “Maybe that's what they need.”
“Some, yes. But we can't do this without their knowledge of the enemy. And mother's agents will kill the specialists. All of them, no matter how much they've helped.”
Grimacing, Lark raised her hand automatically toward the hidden bracer. “What about the men I brought back, with the White Flame armor?”
“Them too, probably. If the Regents had their way, we'd bite the entire Crimson camp. The only thing that's ever held them back is all the slaves being kept there. I used to agree, but I can't tolerate it now—not after this. If there are still sane soldiers in that camp, we need to recruit them, not kill them. There's been enough death.”
Like the captain? she thought, but couldn't bring it up, not even to offer condolences. “Not that I know what I can do...”
“Just keep it in mind if she asks for your advice. She won't listen to me. Never has. I used to just shrug it off and do my own thing, but now...” Ardent shook her head slowly. “I can't go fling myself into some other conflict. I have to see this through.”
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 90