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

by H. Anthe Davis

  Lark frowned behind her scarf. Here in the shadowless circle, she had assumed the people would know about the monsters in their midst—perhaps even welcome them. And while Kyleen was more unusual than most, it wasn't the worst thing she had seen. It was even pretty, in a luminous insectile way. If it had to hide from its own people...

  “If daylight comes and it is not open, you will have to haul me back in a crate. I will not walk the streets like this.”

  “I'll be more than happy to box you up. Not so much to let you out again.”

  Unable to hold her tongue, Lark said, “Shouldn't they be worshiping you or something?”

  Kyleen's head swung toward her, and false Maevor glanced over his shoulder as well. With a hiss, the creature said, “Yes, they should, but do they? No, they are cowards.”

  “Here we go,” said Maevor tiredly.

  Lark smirked. Soliciting gossip was her stock in trade. “But I don't understand. In the Crimson Army, they wipe out all memories of your kind. Why would they do that when you serve the Light so faithfully?”

  The creature's cloak shuddered as its wings shifted in some approximation of a shrug. “We serve it, it does not serve us. And so if it says to stay hidden...”

  “In the shadows? Like us?”

  It favored her with what was probably a dirty look, though its features were immobile. “Do not taunt me. We must keep you alive for the mentalists, but they do not need your limbs.”

  Lark shut her mouth.

  In truth, she didn't really fear these two. This predawn stroll felt like nothing. At the end, she would find mages—so what? She had already separated from Cob and his crew. Once they left the city, they would be beyond her knowledge, for who really knew what that boy would do?

  The road was Guardian territory. Snow, earth and trees for miles. They would be fine.

  And I'll be in the same danger as when I was Darilan's captive.

  It annoyed her to be doing this again—yet the similarity gave her a sense of control. False Maevor had discarded her holdout knife but hadn't made her remove her robe despite the protections that still flickered on it. He was very hands-off. Was he a secret turncoat too? How many Imperials hated their jobs?

  The water elemental, Ripple, still rode along beneath her robe. She wished she could strategize with it, but wasn't sure it understood her. Compared to her time with Rian, where they collaborated in gestures and glances as much as words...

  Her eyes misted, and she struggled to blink them clear. Perhaps these two could be swayed by a woman's tears, but she refused to stoop to that. It was her mother's tactic.

  The sky had gone a vague lavender by the time they reached the Watchtower. At four stories high, it loomed over the Riddish side of the city but could not hold a candle to the struts and spires of the Trivesteans, and its spot at the center of the converging districts made it seem like a stepping-stone between styles.

  Beyond, the sandstone fortress stood glowering in the dim light, its arrow-slits like myriad eyes. While most of its height was bare blocks, the lowest story had been painted darker—but could not quite hide the marks of Riddish graffiti. Tall men in Sapphire uniforms manned the gates, pikes and bows at the ready, their gazes tangible even at this distance.

  The Watchtower had a low wall around it, with a wrought-iron gate that opened at Maevor's touch. Lark glimpsed something in his hand that he immediately palmed—some kind of entry charm—and as she crossed the threshold she felt the tingle of an arcane field. The air within was colder, stiller, as if captive. Sigils etched the inner wall; she counted out vaulting it.

  A decorative rock-garden covered the tower grounds, with a well-used path winding through it. Seeing how Maevor took pains not to leave it, Lark followed suit, with Kyleen behind. At the door—large, iron-bound, with neither handle nor pull-ring—Maevor reached out with his charm again.

  Nothing happened.

  “Should we knock?” said Kyleen.

  Frowning, Maevor rapped on the heavy wood. The sound barely carried, and Lark quirked a brow. That was how it sounded when there was no hollow space beyond—just a solid wall, like with a door that anchored a shadow-path.

  Maevor's eyes narrowed as if he'd made the same connection. “They should be active,” he said, stepping back to stare up at the tower, but as it had no windows, she didn't know what he expected to see. A thin thread of smoke rose from its peak, nothing more.

  He knocked again, harder, but received no response. Kyleen shifted anxiously, claws squeaking on the slate pavings.

  “Well, I guess we wait,” said Maevor finally.

  Kyleen hissed and looked to the brightening eastern sky. “I can not stay. Once again you will get all the credit—“

  “We're a team. We get team credit. Look, just because you didn't spot them and weren't the one to snag her doesn't mean you don't get a reward. How many times have I come up dry while you found our quarry in a flyby? We're not competing.”

  The creature gave him a sour look, then shrugged its cloak off, baring narrow limbs and opalescent carapace. In the growing light, it almost seemed to shimmer, and Lark resisted the urge to touch it. “I will fly the roads, see if the others have emerged,” it told Maevor. “You will tell our commander how long I spent over the desert seeking them. It is not my fault.”

  “Yes, yes. Fly well.”

  A whistling huff, then it clack-walked to the gate and slipped out. Lark drifted a few steps after. Through the bars, she saw it crouch low, chitinous leg-plates separating to show sinews like silk cord pulled tight—then spring upward, surpassing the roof's height in a blink. At the crest of the jump, it snapped out filmy wings and caught the dawn wind, sweeping high into the sky like a soap-bubble and then a speck.

  “Impressive, right?” said Maevor. “And actually not as much of a pain as it seems. Better than a—” He cut himself off awkwardly.

  “A ruengriin?” Lark supplied. “Or a lagalaina? Maybe an aenkelagi?”

  “You know, we're supposed to kill civilians who become aware of us.”

  She turned to meet his dark-eyed gaze with her own. Even a week ago, this might have cowed her—the situation, the shackles, the threads. But Rian was gone, and she was alone, and she didn't care anymore. This detachment wouldn't last if they started smacking her around, but for now it buoyed her.

  “Well, go on then,” she said, raising her bound wrists. “Not like I can stop you.”

  His brows rose, then he turned and gestured toward a stone bench set back from the path. “Let's grab a seat. Who knows when they'll open up.”

  She eyed him as he moved away, then reluctantly followed. He took one end of the bench and she took the other, and they sat in silence as the light grew and the city stirred around them. With the wall in the way, Lark could not see much, but the periodic slam of doors became the rattle of cart wheels and the shuffle of feet, then the first criers, the early stalls being set up.

  What would happen if I ran out there, screaming for help?

  It was worth considering. If these creatures really feared exposure...

  Metal rasped once, twice, then Maevor cursed. She glanced over to see him struggling with a hand-held sparker, a rashi cheroot clamped between his teeth. On his next try, it slipped from his mangled grip and hit the ground.

  Part of her wanted to laugh, but the frustration on his face forestalled it. She bent to retrieve the sparker instead. “Need some help?”

  He gave her a sharp look, then sighed and held out the cheroot. “Used to having all my fingers. So far, this is not my favorite assignment.”

  Even with her wrists shackled, it was easy enough to clench the handle and make the striker rasp across the hatchmarked steel of the pan. A few scrapes and the cheroot caught, and Maevor puffed it quickly to a proper ember. Bittersweet smoke wisped between them.

  “Got another?” said Lark. She didn't usually smoke but it wouldn't hurt to try a bit of camaraderie. If only she'd grilled Dasira for information while she'd had t
he chance.

  He fumbled another from his coat and lit it from his, then set it to her lips. The smoke tingled along the roof of her mouth, down her throat and through her lungs, dulling the edges of her nerves. Above, the sky seemed to shift in shade, becoming slightly blue.

  Looking down, she saw a faint radiance from the runes on her robe. “Huh. I'm not hallucinating after all.”

  “You've never seen magic through the rashi lens?”

  “No, just heard rumors. Magic isn't part of my lifestyle. This is just a disguise.”

  “When I was with the Crimson, the magic was so thick around us that they had to ban rashi. So many spells all tangled up together...” He trailed off with a laugh and she considered him sidelong. Except for the bracer, there was nothing to mark him as an Imperial monster—no greyish scars, no golden teardrop. Just shabby workman's clothes and an Illanic complexion nearly as out-of-place here as hers was.

  “But it wasn't you in the Crimson camp,” she said. “That was the real Maevor. Right?”

  His expression shuttered immediately. Rising, he stalked to the tower door, and she winced at her misstep. If he drifted into thinking of himself as Maevor—if she treated him like Maevor—then maybe she could use him.

  No answer came to his charm or his brisk knock, and as he slumped back onto the bench, she said, “Do you remember me?”

  He took another drag from his cheroot, then shook his head. “Never met you. Cayer and I— Cayer and Maevor communicated when they could, but inside the wards, it was impossible.”

  “And you knew Cob well?”

  “Maevor did.”

  “For how long?”

  “Two years, but about five months as a camp-mate— That's not relevant.”

  “You were sent into slavery to watch over him, weren't you? That's relevant.”

  “I'm not him.”

  She knew she shouldn't push, but curiosity got the better of her. “Then who are you?”

  False Maevor's face twisted, and he eyed his cheroot. He seemed to want to be angry, but the herb had a way of preventing that. Lark hadn't taken more than the first drag of hers. “Aenkelagi,” he said.

  “That's not a who, that's a what.”

  “It's all that matters.”

  “No it's not. Look, I have a friend who's the same as you, but she remembers who she was. She remembers why she became...herself. Is that your problem? Did you forget?”

  His eyes narrowed, and her chest tightened. But he just shrugged and looked toward the tower. “Wasn't important enough to remember.”

  “What, your identity wasn't—“

  “I volunteered,” he said quietly. “I had nothing. This...hasn't been what I expected, but it's a purpose. Not everyone has that.”

  “A purpose? Killing and changing people? Why not just go into the army?”

  “Couldn't.”

  “Why not? Oh—“ Lark stared at his face. “Are you a girl?”

  “I'm not anything.”

  “My friend is a guy in a girl's body—sort of—“

  “I'm not anything.” He exhaled a grey cloud. “They say when you're converted, you become the type closest to how you feel. The angry become ruengriin, the sensual become lagalaina and senvraka, the bitter become rovagi. The envious become sarisigi. Aenkelagi—we're the ones who just want to disappear.”

  That doesn't sound like Das, thought Lark. If anything, she should be ruengriin. “I still don't understand why you would do this. Become this,” she said.

  “I'm not here to educate you.”

  “Do you know what your people have done?” The words swelled in her chest, too sudden and raw to be stopped, and she spat them out: “They destroyed Bah-kai. They just crushed it—the whole block. Crimsons and mages and some white-armored types. More Kheri rioted and got beat down, no idea how many are dead. And what, because we sheltered Cob?”

  Maevor looked up, aghast. She could almost see the memories queuing in his eyes.

  “You know how we feel,” she said curtly. “You remember being Maevor. How could you want to become someone else so badly that you'd—“

  The wrought-iron gate squeaked. She and Maevor both looked that way.

  A woman in a bilious green robe stormed through, hair a-frazzle, scarf streaming behind her. Two men followed in her wake, also robed, one soot-streaked and the other half-armored in steel scales with no visible underpinnings. All were Riddish, and cast Lark only brief looks. They didn't seem to notice Maevor.

  The female mage hammered her fist on the door, waited, then kicked it several times. No response came, and the half-armored man grabbed her wrist before she could start pounding again. They conversed quietly, and she crossed her arms, lip trembling.

  Lark traded a glance with Maevor, who grimaced and curled his fingers into a weird shape. It took her a moment to recognize it as a Shadow sign, truncated by his missing fingers: Yours. She bugged her eyes at him, not sure what to think, and he jerked his chin at the mages.

  Morgwi's balls, she thought, then stubbed out her cheroot and made sure her sleeves still covered her shackles before calling out, “We've been trying for a while.”

  The soot-stained man glanced to them and grimaced, indicating the tower. “Is this normal? It's been years for me...”

  “I just got here,” said Lark.

  “What, just now?”

  “Well...” Her mind raced through answers. Where was she expected to be, as a Silent Circle mage? Was it wrong to live in a city instead of the Citadel, or to travel by cart instead of portal? And why did they look so roughed-up? “No, I was on an expedition in the desert. I've been lodging here, got back last night...”

  “So you haven't heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “The Citadel,” interjected the woman in a watery voice. “The Citadel erupted.”

  Though it meant little to her, Lark didn't have to fake shock. “Erupted? How?”

  “We don't know,” said the soot-stained man, running a hand across his face and only mussing himself further. “It started yesterday. Just a weird feeling at first, but then people leaving—telling us to leave. People with all their stuff packed, portals everywhere, and then suddenly there was fighting in the sky and smoke from the ground and—“

  “The mentalists sent us away,” said the armored man. “You didn't hear anything?”

  Lark shook her head. “I haven't been in touch.”

  The female mage abruptly wheeled and kicked the door again, then started tracing symbols on it. Lines of greenish light burned into the heavy wood in their wake.

  “Are you crazy?” said the armored man, moving in. “You'll set off the—“

  “Wards? If the wards were up, I wouldn't be able to do this.”

  The armored man halted and looked up the length of the tower. Lark did as well, and realized that though she could see the blue dome that enclosed the tower and rock-garden, there was no magical light on the tower itself.

  A last symbol, then the woman gave the door another kick. A sound came like a latch popping, and it swung outward to reveal a stone wall with an inset silver arch, also lightless.

  “The portal's down,” said the soot-stained man, bemused.

  Lark rose from the bench, then looked to Maevor. From his uneasy expression, he didn't often work with mages. He caught her glance and nodded her toward the group, and she drifted over to join them.

  “What do you think this means?” she prompted.

  The woman was already tapping on the archway, shimmers of green energy transferring from her fingers to the runes. The armored man cast Lark a look, then started on the other side of the arch, saying, “Something's wrong.”

  “Everything's wrong,” groaned the soot-stained man.

  Glad for the sleeves and bracelets covering her shackles, Lark tugged at the sooty man's arm. “Maybe you should sit. You look unwell.”

  “I— I was in the alchemy lab, everything was catching fire, I just wanted to get my notes but then the f
loor buckled and—“

  “Got it,” said the woman. Everyone looked over as the silver frame activated, a pane of iridescence replacing the stone wall.

  As it clarified into a doorway, smoke poured out in a noxious wave.

  The woman gave a little shriek, and then everyone was running: the Circle mages in pure panic, Lark and Maevor on their heels. The billowing cloud was faster, engulfing them in a hot stinking haze, but the yard was small; it took only a few long strides to reach the wall, a few more moments to feel along it and find the gate. They burst out into the street together, coughing and cursing, the smoke oozing from the gate in their wake.

  Maevor kicked it shut, and the black plumes that had escaped with them dissipated. Looking back, Lark saw the blue dome fill to the brim with roiling darkness, the Watchtower completely obscured. As the smoke reached the upper limits, a thin greasy film of it lifted from the top of the dome and was taken by the wind.

  “I am going back to my clan,” the woman rasped, and took off down the street.

  The two male mages stared after her, then at each other, then at Lark. “They haven't answered all morning?” said the armored one weakly.

  Lark shook her head. “I got here maybe half a mark before you. But there was some—“ She stopped herself from saying smoke, like from a stove, it suddenly occurring to her that mages didn't need such mundane things. “It felt strange,” she amended. “I just didn't want to interrupt.”

  Nodding dazedly, the armored man said, “Well— I don't know what to do. What do we do?”

  Lark gestured toward the fortress. “Report to the governor?”

  His eyes sharpened and he sneered, looking suddenly very much like his fellow Riddish townsfolk. “The governor can— No, she had the right idea. We're off to our clan. Good luck to you. Come, cousin.”

  “And to you,” Lark echoed as the armored man corralled the sooty one and hauled him down the street. She looked again to the Watchtower in its veil of smoke, and shuddered; the trace of rashi in her throat was gone, overpowered by that awful reek.

  Then she turned to Maevor, who lingered just a pace away, watching her. “Now what?” she said.

  “Now...” He gestured a mangled hand at the tower. “Apparently something bad has happened. So we report in personally. At the Palace.”