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

by H. Anthe Davis

  “I only wish that I could do this for all of you, to salve your tainted souls. But our great master will cleanse you soon enough.”

  No, he thought. No! It was too nightmarish, this dissolution of self, this loss of control. Nothing in it resembled his heart's faith. He tried to grapple but could not form fingers even with the template's help, tried to pull from Cortine's grip but could not break it. Tried to fall but could not even do that much, his shapeless legs refusing him.

  At his back, he saw Serinel and Garrenson both shocked, white-faced; through his skin he saw the others in the doorways, gaping the same. He regretted not telling them. Shame had sewn his mouth shut even more than the fear that his men would turn from him. They had accepted the other specialists, so why not their captain?

  They already seemed to think of him as alien.

  But he feared his mirror. He feared being alone or even closing his eyes, because those voices lived inside him. Ceaseless, senseless, too long-dead to remember themselves except as flashes in his fragmented mind. But not whispering now—no, screaming, indifferent to Cortine's words, as if every inch of his flesh was a mouth that needed to speak.

  He tried to surge up—to attack again, for his own death had shown him how sarisigi fought. But Cortine's hands just sank deeper, a weird intimate invasion that sent a gratified frisson through his monstrous self. The threads massed in his chest, and he saw the white patches on the priest's arms, previously hidden under his sleeves. White filaments rose from them in profusion, each one sending more of that searing presence into him.

  “Perhaps...some assistance,” the priest said, strained.

  And then the mentalist itch was there—not at the back of his skull anymore but everywhere, as if he had landed in a colony of ants. The voices howled all the louder, chorusing then fracturing away in singular screeches, and though he felt a bending pressure upon his will, it was like he had become sand. The harder he was crushed, the more of him that sifted through those mental fingers.

  It was distraction enough that he lost track of his limbs, though, and found them again thoroughly conquered by the strands. Cortine managed to extricate his hands and took an unsteady step backward. Beyond, one white-robe stared fixedly at Sarovy, while the others and Tanvolthene drew wards to keep Scryer Mako and Magus Voorkei pinned to the wall. Mako had a red mark on her cheek like a slap, but a victorious glint in her eye all the same.

  “Well,” said Cortine as he smoothed his robe and regained his composure, “that was interesting. I suppose I should not be surprised. You have suppressed your nature for thirteen years; you must be quite hungry. Though I must say that I'm disappointed. I thought it was your will that kept you so human, yet it seems to be this amulet.”

  He held up the winged-light pendant, its crystal glittering with reflected radiance. Sarovy stared at it. Without the priest's interference, he found he could slowly pull himself back into shape—focus on the template within him and bind to it again—but no sound came from his mouth. He needed his pendant, his anchor, his voice.

  The priest frowned. “Something is wrong with you, captain. A flaw in your making? Or have you been one man for too long?” He sighed. “Sarisigi are always difficult.”

  “They need a strong hand,” said Colonel Wreth. “Most likely it's his personality. He was always an insubordinate fool. Have him eat one of his soldiers; that should break him down a bit.”

  Cortine hesitated, giving Sarovy a moment to stare at his commander in horror. Never in his life would he have expected such words from the mouth of a superior. The armies were strict but they were supposed to be fair, and while punishing his company for his actions stung, this order was abominable.

  You can't make me, he tried to say, or Pike you, or just No, but his mouth moved with the precision of a sock puppet's and his voice would not come. He had no pulse to race or hackles to raise, but he still felt fear—as paralytic to the mind as it would have been to his body.

  “Colonel,” said the priest reasonably, “if he devours someone, he may become them, and the Light will lose its chance to cleanse him.”

  “I don't care about cleansing. I want to see him broken.”

  “That is inappropriate.”

  “You are at my command, priest. Do it.”

  “No.”

  The colonel rounded on him, fist raised, but Cortine did not flinch. “Am I insubordinate now because I obey my Light-given duties rather than your spite?” he said. “I am not here to punish. I will not force him.”

  “You two-faced little eunuch—“

  “Might I remind you that you are merely my temporary commander. I will report back to my true master soon.”

  That stilled Colonel Wreth, though only for a moment. Red-faced, he turned and gestured violently toward the bunkrooms, shouting, “Bring me a victim! If none of you pissants will do as you're told, I'll just execute your precious soldiers until you do.”

  “Colonel!” the priest chided, but made no move, and as the specialists stepped into the bunkrooms to start hauling out men, Sarovy realized that Wreth had been their master all along.

  Of course he had. He ran the brigade. But some part of Sarovy had thought their loyalties belonged to the Light, or the priest, or Enkhaelen. Something beyond the army's hierarchy—something more.

  Yet what use was more when it rarely appeared, while the day-to-day masters pressed their boots down ever harder on the company's neck?

  I can't let this happen, he thought as a handful of his soldiers were pulled free, struggling futilely in the grips of the ruengriin. As they were dragged forward, Colonel Wreth drew his sword, arcane runes lighting up along its steel length.

  I can't...

  How many would he kill? By the nasty little smirk he wore as he directed the first man down before him, the answer was obvious: every single one.

  The blade rose, shining with razor light.

  Sarovy lurched to his feet, half-shaped hands up, trying without voice to show his surrender.

  The blade paused. Colonel Wreth grinned.

  “That one,” he said, pointing past Sarovy. “Kill that one for me, and the rest will live to see the Palace.”

  Sarovy did not need to turn his head, for he could see through his non-skin as Serinel behind him—both arms held by White Flames—blanched hard. Were he flesh, his stomach would have sunk. He liked Serinel. The man was a mixed-blood Trivestean, from a border city rather than one of the inner fortresses, but his presence among the lancers had been a comfort to Sarovy for years. A sign that he wasn't alone here in exile. They weren't friends, exactly, but Serinel always knew his mind.

  Next to him, Garrenson struggled and protested in the White Flames' grips. Part of Sarovy wished that Wreth had picked him, but the greater and more exhausted side knew that this was best. The colonel would not be satisfied with a small sacrifice.

  When did I become so beaten?

  Ponderous in his fluxing flesh, Sarovy turned and reached for his man. Serinel's lips skinned back from his teeth, and he dug his heels into the floor, trying to shove himself back; his eyes held no recognition, only disgust and defiance. But he could not break from the White Flames' grips; they stood as if rooted to the floor, their faceless helms uncaring, barely needing to compensate for Serinel's struggles.

  And the voices were there, urging him onward. Young, old, male, female, they whispered and giggled and hissed, and as his lumpy hand came closer, it began to attenuate against his will—to reach out pseudopods of grey substance that latched eagerly to Serinel's face. The lancer bucked and shook his head in a frenzy, but to no avail. The claylike stuff would not be dislodged.

  Horror tightened its grip on Sarovy, but he forced through it. More of his mutinous flesh was pouring out from his chainmail sleeve, flowing across the connection in lumps and cords and toothed tendrils, and it wasn't fair to any of them but mostly it wasn't fair to Serinel to draw this out. The choice had been made, and the only one to suffer should be Sarovy.

&
nbsp; So he stepped in and let the grey mass of his monstrosity flow freely: across the lancer's face, through his nostrils, then breaching the seal of his mouth.

  Flickers began in his nerves. Sense-impressions, emotions: terror, pain, betrayal; breathlessness; hideous immobility. As he forced himself to stare into Serinel's contracting pupils, his vision doubled, and he saw himself like an unfinished bust: his mouth just a scalpel-slash, his eyes two pits, yet his expression still there. Haggardly sad and recognizable even as sucker-mouths and tendrils bloomed and faded along his cheeks.

  He wanted to pull away, but no. There had to be mercy. So he pushed forward instead, and Serinel shuddered, eyes twitching upward. And in that airless space his not-fingers had made, Sarovy felt a sudden presence: a fracturing spark that bled into him when he clutched it, filling him with visions of the other man's life. Keceirnden, a black-haired woman, an older couple, a horde of siblings and cousins whose names almost reached his lips...

  The voices chorused their hunger, and in disgust he let go. The spark fled through his fingers.

  Serinel's eyes went glassy, and his tremors ceased.

  Carefully, delicately, Sarovy extricated himself. It was easier than he had anticipated; without the spark, the grey flesh ceased to care. Not a physical hunger, then, but something fouler. Something deeply predatory and spiritually destructive.

  “Not going to absorb him?” said the colonel from behind.

  He shook his head.

  “Well, your choice. Houndmaster, are you hungry?”

  “...Already ate.”

  Vrallek's voice sounded strained. Without turning, Sarovy expanded his vision to the back of his head again and saw the Houndmaster standing rigid beyond the portal-frame, hands clasped behind his back. He was staring at Sarovy, but seemed unaware that Sarovy could see him. His expression looked almost disappointed.

  No, not that. Disheartened? Resigned?

  “Then feed it to your hounds,” said the colonel dismissively. “The rest of them—put them back in their rooms.”

  The prisoners were hauled up and shoved around, few struggling. Even Garrenson had gone slack-shouldered, his cheeks wet as he was crammed into the first lancers' bunkroom. Sarovy stood where he was, watching with his strange new vision as Vrallek made a wide circle around him in order to claim Serinel's corpse from the White Flames. He kept even further away on the retreat, then slunk out the assembly yard door without a word.

  “Now, there will be a few changes around here,” said the colonel. “I don't expect much from you lot, but any who volunteer for my service before Darkness Day will be exempt from the Palace treatment. In the interim, I'm naming your Sergeant Korr to the archer lieutenancy, with his lieutenant now a sergeant, and Corporal Herrick to the lieutenancy formerly held by Arlin. Lieutenants Rallant, Linciard and Vrallek will stay as they are. New lieutenants, you are responsible for discipline in your platoons, and I expect you to be ruthless in its enforcement.”

  Sarovy shook his head wordlessly. Herrick was a ruengriin specialist; how was he expected to run an infantry platoon? Korr was a controller like Rallant and already had a foothold in his home platoon, but Herrick?

  “We will also be replacing the wards,” said the colonel. “The Scryer and the Gejaran have opposed us and must be executed, but as they are holding many of the protections on this place, it can wait. If any of you see a dark spot on the walls, or flickering runes, inform your lieutenant immediately. It is for the safety of your souls.”

  Had he hands, he would have clenched them.

  “As for your brethren and the witch down in the cells, do not concern yourselves. Anyone who speaks of them should be whipped.”

  Shuralla, and...who? Without a tongue, he couldn't ask, but he could guess: anyone who had resisted the takeover of the garrison.

  “Now, Messenger, if you believe you have this under control...”

  “Yes, colonel.” Cortine's voice was rather flat. “Captain, do you require your medallion?”

  No. I should be destroyed.

  But as the colonel and his White Flames began trooping out, Sarovy nodded and turned to the Messenger, who pressed the medallion into his palm without fear. Immediately the fiery lines of the template snapped into full focus, and his flesh shivered and jerked as it resumed its proper shape.

  The priest smiled faintly, and he had no doubt that those blank eyes could see him with perfect clarity. “Perhaps you should consider wearing it somewhere less accessible, captain. It took no more than a tug to remove. You would not want such a thing to happen again.”

  “No,” said Sarovy. His voice felt rusty, as if he hadn't used it in years. All throughout him, the familiar cords and hollows of the human form were remaking themselves, and he breathed in deeply—a comfort—then gave the priest the smallest of nods. Cortine touched his arm, on the mail rather than the flesh, then broke away toward a bunkroom, evidently bent on ministering to the doomed.

  For a time, he stayed where he was, staring at the pendant in his palm. If he could have smashed it and dissolved into nothing, he would have. But he had no freedom, and only now was he realizing it.

  Finally, he pressed it to the base of his throat, and let the flesh swallow it smoothly.

  If this was what they had made of him, then so be it.

  *****

  Scryer Mako caught Magus Voorkei's eye as they were led up the stairs toward the room where they'd been bunking, and where they would now be held. Voorkei raised a brow at her, and she crossed her forefingers like the Gheshvan sigil for 'fight'.

  He bared his tusks in a grin, then flung himself backward into the white-robe bringing up the rear.

  Wards flashed and shattered as the two of them toppled in a mess of arms and legs. The mages in front of her—Tanvolthene and two more white-robes—turned in alarm, and she scooted aside to let one go by then hooked her foot around his ankle at the last moment. It was a smooth no-impact motion, the kind that most wards did not react to, and the mage tripped right over it with a satisfying yelp.

  The enemies' blocks on her mentalism weakened briefly, but did not fall.

  Pikes, she thought as Tanvolthene turned on her, quick-shaping a ward that rammed her to the banister. The disrupting collar they had placed on her prevented any non-mentalism and the wards pinned her arms down; no chance of drawing the dagger hidden under her robe. While most non-Artificers disdained physical weapons, no Riddishwoman would be caught without a blade—like no wolf would be caught without teeth. Mako was no exception.

  Still, she could kick and squirm and headbutt the ward, which would force Tanvolthene to keep powering it.

  “What do you think you're doing, woman?” he snapped, attention skipping from her to the thrashing melee on the stairs and back. “The Empire needs mentalists. They might not kill you if you behave!”

  She snarled at him, then closed her eyes and focused her mind while her body maintained the struggle. Voorkei would only be able to distract the white-robes for so long, and he had no mental protections beside his own will; the ones she had given him had been stripped away in the first few moments of their capture. The enemy mentalist stood at the top of the stairs, unreachable but attention split, so if she could just bore a hole through the mind-blocks, maybe she could send a distress call.

  A part of her wanted to obey Tanvolthene. It whispered, It's always been this way, Mako. You didn't know it, but you've always served this horror. From the Circle to the army to the company, you have aided and abetted the making of men into monsters. And more—remember that mother and her children? What do you think happened?

  Why fight it now?

  Because she'd thought they were better than this. Blaze Company, the Crimson, the Empire itself. She'd never been a militant woman—she was a Scryer, for pike's sake—but she'd believed in the need to protect the Empire, to expand its borders, to bring the pagans and heretics into the Light. Not for any deep faith but for security.

  But what she had seen here, and
heard from Sarovy and Cortine and Wreth...

  She could no longer be a part of this.

  She had to warn someone. Anyone. She was starting to break through but there would only be one shot, and it had to be someone who could act—who wouldn't be torn apart the moment they voiced their intent—which meant no one in this garrison. If only Presh was still out there... If only she knew someone loose in the city...

  Her eyes snapped open.

  She needed an enemy. Someone whose mind she had already touched.

  Her drilling-thought broke through, and she grabbed for the psychic tether she had followed once before. Since that day, she had checked it regularly, hoping to catch the Shadow bitch unaware, and it stood out bright and strong against her field of mind-blocked darkness.

  Active!

  *****

  “A goodwill gesture changes nothing,” said Enforcer Ardent to the widow Rynher. “I would advise taking that money and leaving the city like Mistress Beltras.”

  “But it indicates that the company in the garrison and the ones on Old Crown are not in lockstep,” said Gwydren Greymark across the table. He wore his lion-skin like a cloak now, the hood pushed back from his short steely hair and the foreclaws hooked into his chainmail between the heavy plates. With the new Crimsons swarming the streets, they were all armored-up, him more than most.

  “This is true, and unusual,” said Mother Matriarch Lirayen at his side. Even she wore a bit of armor, though really it was padding: a quilted surcoat over her brown dress to keep the eiyets from pinching her black-and-blue every time she was moved to a new safehouse.

  At the moment, they and a good two handfuls of councilors and district representatives were crammed into the back room of a West Ridge apartment, drinking weak tea and trading news. The young girl that had come with Gwydren sat in a corner, cold-eyed but listening; the dog was asleep.

  “Not so unusual as to make us change our minds,” Ardent said, tired of this argument. “That one man regrets an execution means nothing.“