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

by H. Anthe Davis

  “Mm, maybe what?” She let the door gape wider, revealing the shape-hugging tooled leather of her so-called uniform. Her eyes were hooded, amused. “I appreciate a man who will brave danger for me, but this is a bit much.”

  “Look, ken I come in? The hounds are havin' a fit.”

  She pursed her lips, then shrugged and stepped back, crooking a finger. “Be my guest.”

  A mix of relief and terror washed over him as he crossed the threshold. The interior was as plush as before, with the silk-draped shrine off to the side; he looked away quickly. She must have seen a shade of unease on his face, because she pressed up to him, two fingers catching his chin, and purred, “Don't worry. We have time.”

  The door sealed shut behind him.

  His hands rose to her hips as if independent of him. Her breath was hot on his lips; she was a few inches taller, and beneath the leather he could feel muscle like the flank of a hunting cat. Sense-memory flared: the sight and feel of her above him in all her terrible glory...

  Every animal urge screamed at him to strip, to luxuriate in her caress, her kiss, her honeyed flesh. But the altar lurked there at the corner of his vision, shriveling him, and he was not merely his instincts. He had needs beyond the physical.

  Something flickered across her face: confusion? Anger? She pushed him back and stared, and he tried to muster some ploy or passion or even a joke to dispel the sharpness in her eyes.

  And realized what he had to do.

  “I-it's not yeh,” he stammered. “Yeh a lovely woman. Gorgeous. An' yeh been real generous to me. So I en't gonna lie. I didn't come fer yeh. I came fer the girl.”

  Her eyes lit with rage, and he braced for a slap, but her hands just fell from him as she shook her head. “I told him,” she spat. “It was too great a dose. You've been thinking about her, eh? Having some sweaty dreams?”

  His skin prickled and he knew he had flushed. There had been dreams, yes—or rather, nightmares where the child stared down at him with eye-sockets hollowed like a doll's and he couldn't breathe, couldn't struggle, couldn't wake up. Could only lay there in shame, with the altar-candles burning low around them and her little dress slithering across his hips.

  He didn't want to acknowledge it. The last time he'd been within arm's reach of a child was when he'd been a child himself, so he had no basis of comparison. She was always there in his head now, but surely it was just guilt. Right?

  “Yeh,” he answered. “I had t'...come see her...”

  Nerice made an angry sound and turned away. “After all your resistance. Feh. It's your own fault. I wouldn't have had to give you such a big dose if you'd just done it. I suppose men like you have to put up big solid walls to hide behind. Well go on, I don't care.”

  “...What?”

  She gestured toward the curtain that led to the bedchamber. “Go get it out of your system. The Field Marshal said you need more purification anyway, so you might as well.”

  His jaw sagged. Part of him couldn't believe it had worked; the rest was horrified. “Yeh don't...yeh don't care if me an' the girl...?”

  “Do what you want,” she said. “Better her than me.”

  She flapped a hand at him dismissively—just as well, because he had no good words. The curtains parted at his touch, sending another shiver of magic up his arm. Gut in knots, he pushed through to the bedchamber.

  Rune-marked walls bathed it with low, warm light. A great bed stood central, too large to have been brought in through the doors, and covered by a Gejaran tapestry-quilt and half a dozen pillows. Armor racks and trunks lined one wall, with lids lifted to show silks and velvets and the glitter of jewels. Another wall held a glass-fronted liquor cabinet, shaving vanity with tools, a bathtub behind a privacy screen, and a writing desk with a small scroll-rack at hand. A table and two chairs took up the space between entry and bed, the floor coated in rugs.

  In the right-hand corner, half-hidden by a chest-of-drawers, was the girl.

  Her black eyes pinned him. Carefully, he called, “Hoi, Nerice?”

  No answer. He stilled his breath and listened, but heard nothing through the curtain. Soundproofed.

  Holy flaming pikes.

  He swallowed, feeling the click of his dry throat, and forced himself to step further in. “Hoi, little girl,” he said softly, “s'alright, I'm not here t' hurt yeh.”

  She didn't move, only her eyes shifting to follow his progress, and as he angled around the furniture he saw with deep relief that she was dressed. Her flowery little nightgown and neat dark braid didn't preclude any of the horrors he'd imagined, but they let him push them away.

  “Y'don't have t' hide,” he said, creeping closer. She had a pillow in her arms, and whenever she hugged it tighter, he halted. He wanted to grab her up and race out the door but the thought of her crying or struggling was too much.

  I'm the worst person in the world.

  “Listen, what's yeh name?” he said.

  She was silent.

  “I'm Wes. Weshker. I'm from a place real far away.” Slowly, he rounded the chest-of-doors and crouched just beyond arm's reach, not wanting to crowd her. “S'called Corvia. I got taken from there when I was little. Did yeh get taken from yeh mum?”

  She nodded slightly.

  “It's a terrible thing, ennit? I miss my mum a lot, still. I wanna go back an' find her when I'm free, an' all my family. D'yeh have more family than yeh mum?”

  Another nod.

  “Brothers an' sisters an' stuff?”

  The girl unlocked an arm from the pillow and raised two fingers. Her eyes seemed to fill her face, welling with fear, and Weshker made an extra effort to stay low, to speak softly.

  “Jes' two,” he said, “that's lucky. I had seven sisters, six of 'em older. Big, mean sisters. They bossed me around all the time. How 'bout yeh?”

  A tentative nod.

  “Ennit wretched? But yeh know what I learned from that?” He leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice even lower. “I learned how t'be sneaky. Can yeh be sneaky?”

  The girl's face squished up in thought, then she nodded.

  “An' quiet?”

  Nod nod.

  “That's good. 'Cause we gonna sneak out.”

  Her eyes widened, and she clutched the pillow tighter.

  “How, yeh ask?” said Weshker, making a soothing gesture. “Well, I dunno yet. I never been back here before. There en't another door, is there?”

  Shake shake.

  “Crap. Er, I mean, mud. Uh, the lady out there, she kinda mean, yeh?”

  The girl nodded vigorously, fingers digging into the pillow's sides.

  “So if I, uh, had t'hurt her, yeh wouldn't be scared?”

  A slow shake.

  “All right.” Weshker swallowed and felt for the blades under his uniform jacket. Nerice had taken his old ones, but it had been a matter of moments to appropriate more—once he'd regained enough strength to leave his bunkroom. He didn't know how good lagalaina were in a fight, or what effect her honeyed poison would have on him if he attacked, but it seemed the only way. Incapacitate her, creep out, carry the girl to the nearest women's barrack then get Sanava to smuggle her to freedom...

  It would work. It had to.

  “Then that's what we gonna do. But I wanna... I wanna say sorry first.” The corners of his eyes prickled, so he squinted at the wall over her head to keep from succumbing. “What I did... I didn't wanna, but it happened, an' it was a terrible thing, an' I can't let that happen t'yeh again. So if she rips m'throat out, I jes' want yeh t'know, I am so, so sorry.”

  She hugged the pillow tighter, face nearly hidden in it, and stayed still for so long he thought he'd die. But then she nodded, very slightly, and he exhaled a breath as heavy as a mountain.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “I dun wanna be the man who did that anymore. That coward, y'know? I'm scared—I been more scared in this camp than I been in my whole life—and I can't live like this, I can't do this, not fer anythin' in the world. Them ot
her soldiers, maybe they en't got sisters, or maybe they jes' dun get it, they happy t'jes' do that shit an' move on. But I can't. I en't gonna be Imperialized Weshker. M'mum named me Vesha, so that's who I'll be.”

  “Vesha,” she said, very quietly.

  His heart thrilled, and he nodded encouragingly. “Vesha Geiri. What'd yeh mum call yeh?”

  “Jesalle.”

  “That's a pretty name. Too pretty fer here. Let's go somewhere it belongs, yeh?”

  A nod. A cautious attempt to rise.

  Then the rune-light in the room fluttered, and she flinched.

  Weshker's heart sank. “That's him, ennit,” he whispered, hands moving to the hilts of his daggers. He couldn't risk a fight; as much as he wanted Rackmar dead, he knew he was overmatched, and even if he got in a lucky hit there were still the guards and Nerice. Running was equally impossible, and he was out of convincing lies. He was trapped. They'd throw him in jail, or beat him, or execute him, and Jesalle would never escape.

  There's another choice, came a voice from the back of his mind. The Corvish way.

  Death.

  He hated to consider it, but already he felt inevitability closing around him like a fist. Sweat beading on his brow, he eased one of his blades from its sheath. The polished metal caught the ward-light, and the girl's eyes widened. “Jesalle, I dun want this,” he whispered. “I promise, if there was any other way, I'd take it. Pikes, if they stay out there—if it's jes' some messenger or somethin'—I'm happy t'not do it. But if it's him...

  “Please tell me yeh understand.”

  She said nothing, only stared at the blade, and he swallowed against a rock-hard lump in his throat. He'd never killed someone before. Animals, sure: hares and wildfowl in Corvia, snakes and scorpions and grigs in the slave-camp. But not a person.

  He didn't have the fire for this. He was barely a Corvishman.

  “Oh T'okiel,” he breathed, “Daxfora, gimme a spine fer once in my life...”

  The curtain parted.

  “—purification requires the ritual, not a filthy assignation,” said Field Marshal Rackmar, glaring back into the antechamber as he stepped through. He was fully armored but for the lack of helm, just as Weshker had seen him by the dome.

  Too late, Weshker realized that he was staring, not acting, and the Field Marshal's gaze lit upon him.

  “You!” Rackmar roared.

  Weshker lunged for the girl.

  But she slipped past him—small, slight and fast, his hand catching ineffectually after her nightgown as he tried to turn and rise at the same time. She leapt onto the bed and scrambled across it, galvanized by the same terror that had turned him into a fumbling mess.

  He lurched after her only to be shoulder-slammed into the wall by the Field Marshal. It was like being hit by a wagon, the breath crushed from his lungs, ribs threatening to snap under Rackmar's bulk—and then the man had him by the throat and hoisted him up, choking, to slam him once more into place.

  “You,” he snarled, fury in his eyes. Weshker realized dimly that he still had his dagger and tried to raise it, only to see a heavy fist come up at him—then stars and reeling darkness.

  The next hit came below the belt. Reflex made him jackknife, the pain surging to all corners; his hands went slack. He fumbled at the Field Marshal's armor, then felt another queasy impact somewhere in his middle, felt his innards leap up into his throat.

  Another hit and he retched helplessly, blind to his surroundings. Rackmar made a sound of disgust and let him drop; he met the floor with chin and knees and elbows, tasting hot copper through the bile.

  Somehow, he started to push up—to fight back or scuttle away, he didn't know—but a heavy boot came down on his lower back, driving his limbs out from under him. It pressed harder and his pelvis creaked, unable to bear the weight of an armored man three times his size. Fire stitched him from groin to ribs and all the way up his spine, and he gasped into the floor, still seeing only smears.

  The weight let up marginally. Then a hand clamped in his hair and pulled his head back, bending his spine to the limit. A high, agonized sound came from him—a hare's scream.

  “Silence,” growled the Field Marshal.

  He struggled to comply but his mouth wouldn't close, the muscles in his neck too strained to help. Air came to his lungs as if through a pinched straw. It was all he could do to gasp enough of it.

  “You miserable little shit,” said his captor. “If I didn't have a use for you, I would twist your skull right off your spine. Did he order you to do this? Assassinate my dear priestess?”

  “Sir, I swear I thought he wanted purification,” came Nerice's voice, distressed. “No one's ever needed it more than once, so how could I—“

  The impact of metal on flesh cut her off. Weshker heard her hit furniture, then floor, then give a choked sob.

  “Retrieve the priestess,” said Rackmar coldly.

  As she scrambled up, Weshker eased his hand toward his other dagger. The weight still pressed at his spine, the grip bending him backward, but the first screams from his body had subsided. If he had any chance, it was—

  “Answer my question,” said Rackmar, pressing harder. “Did Enkhaelen order this?”

  “Wh—who?” Weshker choked.

  “Your benefactor. The blighted bastard who put you in Blaze Company. Don't try to lie. I've seen your memories; he deemed you useful. But useful for what?”

  Weshker blinked through tears, his vision smeary. Cautious footsteps and a soft, slightly slurred voice told him Nerice had gone in search of the girl. “I...I dunno,” he mumbled.

  “You are his assassin!” Rackmar snarled. “Does he speak to you through your crows? Have you reported what you've seen? Or are you just another of his useless distractions?”

  The pull on his scalp intensified, and he gave a strangled yelp as his spine lit up. Desperately he grappled at Rackmar's wrist, dagger forgotten. “I dunno, I dunno! I never seen him but once, he dun tell me nothin', I dunno!”

  A sound of disgust and the grip released. He slumped to the floor with a moan, spine throbbing and limbs tingling terribly, and felt a boot-heel press on the back of his neck.

  Then a patter of small feet approached, and the weight lifted. Rackmar's shadow passed over him. “Come to me, my darling,” he said, and from one bleary eye Weshker saw Jesalle take an obedient step, then another, before being swept up into the Field Marshal's arms.

  “Take control of this piece of trash,” he ordered Nerice. “I will not have Enkhaelen snapping him free.”

  “Why not just kill him, sir?”

  “I will. But first I'll see Enkhaelen's face when I line up all his broken toys before him. He's taken such pains to hide them; I will enjoy crushing them in front of his eyes. Even better, perhaps they will work the same on the Guardian vessel.”

  Hands gripped his shoulders and tried to peel him from the floor. He didn't want to go, but the nails bit in, pouring sweet fire into his veins. His head went floaty, his limbs moving on their own. As he rose, he marveled at the big red mark across Nerice's cheek, her left eye already swelling shut. Sullenly, she divested him of his remaining blade.

  “What if this is what he wants, sir?” she said.

  “What can he do with a handful of broken Dark-lovers?”

  “He is the Maker, sir. My venom can't hold against him.”

  “It won't have to. We have our allies.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  On his feet now, Weshker managed to raise his head enough to see the girl. Rackmar had her straddling his hip, one arm under her backside, her hands on the lip of his breastplate and her head pillowed against his shoulder like father and daughter, but her eyes were the emptiest he'd ever seen.

  “Go now,” said Rackmar. “I'll follow once I've put her to bed.”

  “Yes sir.”

  As she steered him through the curtains and the soundproofing ward, he heard Nerice mutter, “Hit me again and see what you get, you dickless bastar
d.” But she did nothing, just forced Weshker to the door and out.

  The White Flame escort stood below, with Pendriel plus several camp-slaves. As they descended, one slave looked up and Weshker saw his face melt, the clay of it reshaping into a mockery of his own.

  If not for the hand on his neck, he would have fainted. Even with it, a long time passed before he could see more than grey.

  *****

  “You can't play that card,” said Lark. “This is Huntsman, not Cutthroat.”

  Maevor paused with hand outstretched to take the pair he'd just slapped his Knight down on. “House rules.”

  “There are no 'house rules' that change the game in the middle of playing it.” She picked a card from her own hand—the Herald of Swords—and held it out defiantly. “Intercept.”

  “You had a Herald? I asked for Heralds two turns ago.”

  “I just drew it. If we're adding Cutthroat rules, then I intercept.”

  He exhaled in annoyance but let her take the cards. Around them, pilgrims spectated while trying to pretend indifference; they were standing, this being the waiting line for an Imperial audience. Lark had lasted about two marks before plunking down on the floor and demanding entertainment.

  That might have been days ago, for all she could tell. She and Maevor had arrived at the city near nightfall, and exhaustion and hunger had coupled with fear to make her passage through the city a blur. She could only recall glimpses of temples and bridges, gardens and streams, all reflecting a pervasive radiance toward the deep black sky.

  She was ravenous now. Maevor had slipped her a piece of jerky a few marks back, but it wasn't enough, and though servants passed by with pitchers of water occasionally, she didn't want to drink. Having to step away from her only company—even to relieve herself—was untenable. Under her robe, the elemental Ripple shivered as if threatened; she felt the same.

  As for Maevor, he seemed subdued. Perhaps she'd succeeded in planting doubts in his mind, but it was too little, too late. She had no illusions about what would happen here.

  Yet, looking at him, she had to hope. He was still talking to her; he hadn't disconnected. And the further they went in the line, the more uncomfortable he seemed. Maybe one last push...