Go pike yourself, he wanted to say. Even better would be to unleash the bellow and drive his staff through this bastard's throat. Free everyone, right here, right now. Perhaps the prince would help him. Dasira, Fiora and Arik certainly would.
But the White Flames had only multiplied, ringing them now like a collar. And some—maybe even most—of those hostages could never be freed.
Guilt closed on him like a fist. He tried to fight it, but Rackmar was right; he'd been running around without consequence for too long. Everyone else had suffered for knowing him—for even coming into contact with him—and for what? No grand prize for their patience and help, just this wretched end. Conversion and death.
He'd wanted both those things, once.
Maybe he'd been right.
Here they were, not even at the city's doorstep—nowhere near the Palace—and his journey was done. His choices came down to his own execution, or the torment of those who'd trusted him.
“If I submit, you'll let them go?”
“Cob!” said Fiora, aghast. He didn't look at her. They had been through this before, in Haaraka, when Enkhaelen offered to take only him and leave the others alone. Should he have accepted? Would that have saved them from this fate, or would they have been dragged here anyway?
The Field Marshal grinned. “I will release my control. The ones who belong to me will return even without a leash, and those that do not... They can run off into the swamp for all I care. All I require is your skull for my mantlepiece.”
It's a fair trade, Cob thought. The Guardian would find another vessel. He'd already known he was coming here to die, so what did it matter how?
Behind him, he heard Arik's faint whimper. At one side, Dasira stood tense as strung wire; at the other, Fiora tried desperately to catch his eye. Inside, the Guardian kept its stony silence as if it knew he couldn't be swayed—but it wasn't trying to escape either. He found it strangely comforting.
Taking a deep breath, he raised the staff, then rammed its end into the white ground. The fibers locked tight, twisting halfway up it like vines claiming a tree. As he stepped past it, brushing the bark from his arms and shoulders, he glimpsed his friends start to follow. He gestured for them to halt, and then did.
“Fine,” he said quietly, staring at the Field Marshal. “I submit.”
The big man grinned viciously and jabbed a finger at the ground. “On your knees, but keep the horns. They'll look good on display.”
Cob's gaze slid upward, to where his cut antler had partially regrown, then shook his head. “Once the Guardian goes, they go.”
“You can't be serious about this!” Fiora shouted behind him.
“Then cling to the Guardian,” said the Field Marshal as a white sword began to grow from his gauntleted hand. “Cling your hardest or I will execute the rest of this trash after you.”
Halfway down, Cob eyed him. “That's not the deal.”
“Do it,” the Field Marshal snarled, a feverish light in his eyes. Cob thought to lunge, to gore him with these antlers he seemed to admire, but the man had been wise enough to keep his distance and already the white fibers were rising from the ground to fix Cob in place. He could shred them away, but not quickly.
In his chest, the Guardian shifted uneasily. It didn't seem afraid of the white sword, and for that he was glad; as much as they'd fought, he didn't want to be the cause of its destruction. But when he went to swipe the bark armor from his neck, it grew right back.
Stop it. Escape like you always do, just leave me the antlers if you can.
A shiver went through it, but if anything, it gripped him harder. He thought of his father in there, and the sense of obligation—of love?—that had brought it to him in the first place. Then a hand gripped his good antler, pushing his head down, and a great white shape loomed over him in triumph...
“Coming through!”
A wave of yelps and curses accompanied the call. The grip on his antler jerked, and he managed to look up enough to see the Field Marshal's attention on the crowd, his face gone crimson with rage. A gap had formed among the troops and hostages, with several on the ground as if shoved away and a few half-tumbled into the others.
Striding through the gap came Enkhaelen, hands raised to divide the way, white robe hanging open to show the black beneath.
“Go away!” the Field Marshal roared. “This is my victory!”
“And you didn't invite me to the celebration? I feel scorned.”
“You should feel my blade in your throat, you wretched traitor. Perhaps you will soon.”
Enkhaelen halted a few steps away and planted his hands on his hips, looking up at the Field Marshal with a sly little smile. “Oh, you think so?” He was dressed more neatly than usual—hair pinned down by clips, lacings tight, buttons correct—and by the wealth of silver embroidery on every layer, he was either headed to a grand ceremony or a war. Despite his smile, his eyes were as cold and hard as his opponent's.
“I know your tricks,” snarled the Field Marshal. “It is no coincidence that you've shown up now. Come to rescue your precious game-piece?”
“What, that one?” Enkhaelen gestured negligently at Cob. “He's a pain in my ass. I just wanted to verify that the Guardian had left, so I could hunt it again.”
“You mean conspire with it.” The Field Marshal yanked the antler hard enough to make Cob grunt. “Do you think me an idiot? No matter what pandering display you put on for the court, you are still the Ravager vessel. You are still yourself—the man who betrayed our god.”
The necromancer smirked. “Me, the Ravager? I subsumed that petty little spirit centuries ago. I'll take this one too, if you don't mind. I see it's still in there...”
He reached toward Cob, but the Field Marshal raised his blade in the way. “Keep your distance.”
“Why? You've caught him. You win. I can't have my consolation prize?”
As they argued, Cob—still on his knees—slanted a look toward his friends. His head was twisted in such a way that he could just barely see Dasira, who stood with her blade drawn but held downward, her face turned away as she talked quietly to someone out of sight. The White Flames had drawn in close to hold them all at sword-point; he couldn't begin to count them.
The Guardian remained in place, listening. On his other side, Cob glimpsed the red light of the prince's sword slowly coming near.
If he released the antlers... If the prince attacked the Field Marshal rather than him...
“Look, Argus,” said Enkhaelen, sounding exasperated, “you have no use for souls. I do. If you insist on killing him here, at least let me grab the spirit. You get your trophy, I get mine.”
“And allow you to continue this farce?”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“This 'game' you play. All of your petty revolutions and temper-tantrums and sabotage, all the damage you've done to my armies and our supporting forces—it is a distraction. I know about your other projects, your spies, your sleeper agents. I have Blaze Company under lock and key, and now I have you.”
White Flames stepped forth to menace Enkhaelen from all sides, but the necromancer never looked away from the Field Marshal. A strange smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “Blaze Company? That's interesting.”
“Not your best gambit,” the Field Marshal sneered. “Perhaps you have others up your sleeves, but I won't let you use them. You will attend the Midwinter rites at my side, and then—“
“Argus, really. If you wanted a date, you could have just asked.”
Cob saw the Field Marshal's hand rise, heard the smack of metal against flesh, but couldn't credit it—couldn't believe his eyes as the necromancer reeled sideways, the White Flames shifting out of his way as if afraid to touch him. He stayed half-bent for a moment, black-gloved hand pressed to his cheek, then straightened slowly.
“I'm sick of your smart mouth,” snarled the Field Marshal. “You lack respect, loyalty, honor, and even the most basic— Do not laugh at me.”<
br />
“But it's so difficult,” the necromancer teased, a malicious glitter in his eyes. He held his other hand down and back in a way that Cob guessed was hidden from the Field Marshal; between his fingers, a spark formed.
One of the White Flames behind him started to raise his faceplate. Two others moved in, their swords twisting toward his limbs. His hand came up, aimed—
At Cob.
Startled, Cob had no time to react as the spark flared into a blue-white bolt. Only the grip on his antler saved him, wrenching his head aside just far enough that the energy scorched his cheek instead of punching a hole between his eyes. Then the Field Marshal's armored bulk eclipsed his view, flares of blue light and flung soldiers all he could see of the sudden uproar.
To the other side, the prince tried to advance, but more White Flames barred his way.
“Fine, fine,” he heard at last, “I concede. I swear. Tell them to stop touching me.”
“I should lead you back in chains.”
“You haven't got any.”
The Field Marshal shifted enough for Cob to see Enkhaelen in the grip of two White Flames, his hair in disarray but his expression as cool and amused as ever. In contrast, the Field Marshal's was an ugly red, and the gaze he turned on Cob held suspicion—almost trepidation.
“The spirit,” he said thoughtfully.
Enkhaelen snorted. “You care about that now? Just kill him.”
“You promised the Emperor that he would have the spirit. That he could devour it.”
“Did I?”
“And now you try to kill the vessel.”
“This is boring, Argus.”
The look on the Field Marshal's face was that of a man discovering an extra piece to his puzzle. “Mages,” he called, gesturing briskly.
“What are you doing?” said Enkhaelen.
Three white-robed men came forward, all with the bleached hair and sunburnt features Cob had come to recognize as Daecian. “Bind him as thoroughly as possible,” said the Field Marshal, jabbing a finger at Cob. “Flames, add your threads. Perhaps they'll help.”
“Excuse me?” called Enkhaelen. “I thought we were killing him...”
“To release the spirit?” said the Field Marshal, turning away as white lights and tendrils descended upon Cob. He squeezed his eyes shut, half-relieved and half-bewildered by this turn of events. The scorch on his cheek throbbed like someone had inserted a needle under his skin.
“No, not to release the spirit.” Enkhaelen's scoff sounded forced. “So that he's dead and we're done and we can stop playing the game. Just like you want, right?”
“To let the Guardian come back in a new guise, wiser to our ways?”
“I told you I'd eat it if you didn't want—“
“Silence! No, the Emperor agreed to continue this round because you promised him the Guardian. If you are truly not in league with it—“
“Don't be an idiot.”
“—Then you will not object to its sacrifice.”
Cords drew Cob's wrists together behind his back. Arcane energy skated across his shoulders, sloughed off, then tried again and again until it caught like hooks in his skin. The Guardian trembled in his throat as if prepared to leap away on his breath, but something made it stay, until the mesh of tendrils bound his jaw shut. Opening his eyes, he saw the necromancer standing with arms crossed, mouth a bitter line—the picture of disgruntled defeat.
Hands hoisted Cob to his feet. “Keep those antlers where I can see them, boy,” said the Field Marshal, casting a dark eye upon him. “I'll harvest them before the Throne.”
“What about these others?” said the prince. “You made a deal.”
“His death for their life. He's not dead yet. They come with us.”
Cob tried to dig his heels in, but the white ground was slick beneath him. He tried to look back only to find that the tendrils had anchored his antlers to his wrists; any more than a glance strained his shoulders unbearably.
“But you'll let them go? On your word of honor?” said the prince.
“He has no honor,” sneered Enkhaelen. “That's why I was laughing.”
The Field Marshal rounded on the necromancer yet again. “I will not release them so long as you are here. You have your hooks in too many.”
“But I'll always be here. You can't get rid of me.” Enkhaelen smiled sweetly.
“Oh, I will be rid of you. Once I speak to the Emperor...”
“Let me take them,” said the prince. He'd slung the crystal blade across his back, and in the wan light he just looked tired. Used-up. “Neither of you are honorable. I'll make sure this is done properly.”
“Stay out of it!” snapped Enkhaelen.
That drew a smirk from the Field Marshal, and a permissive—almost contemptuous—wave. “I suppose I can cede the useless ones to you if it will soothe your tortured soul. But if you try anything foolish, we will revisit this. With your father.”
The prince clenched his jaw, then exhaled slowly. “Yes sir.”
“Good.”
Then the Field Marshal made another gesture, and a full three-quarters of the hostages—including the caravaners, the foothill townsfolk, most of the pilgrims and innocent bystanders, plus Nana Cray and Vriene Damiel—collapsed like puppets with their strings cut. As they crumpled, he caught sight of one he hadn't noticed, and his heart caught in his throat.
Aedin Cray, Ammala's son.
She was there, still standing among the fallen, and he closed his eyes to avoid hers. To avoid Lark's too, and Weshker's, and all the others who hadn't deserved this.
The white cords tugged at him, and he let himself be led.
*****
Dasira watched them go and cursed herself for not running a different way. Perhaps she could have drawn their pursuit elsewhere—or at least not stood helpless in the aftermath.
At the head of the remaining soldiers, Crown Prince Kelturin stood grim-faced, watching the soulless husks of the fallen being drawn into the substance of the road. Not many hostages remained: Lark, fortunately, and a man Dasira recognized as the former Maevor, plus a few unknown women and confused men. The others she'd recognized—Weshker, Horrum—had been drawn along with the Field Marshal's entourage.
By the prince's expression, he had no idea what to do now.
“Kel,” she hazarded, drawing his stare, “you have to pick a side. I know how much you hate your superiors. It's time to act on that.”
He blinked slowly, then scowled. Despite the illusion, he looked haggard. “My superiors? You mean those two and my father?” He waved to the White Flame soldiers. “I have no power here. Even this lot barely obeys me.”
“But will they impede you?”
“Why?”
Dasira glanced around, meeting Fiora's eyes, then Arik's, then Lark's. The Shadow girl had Maevor by the sleeve, which was curious, but gave her a firm nod—nothing had changed there. And the White Flames had made no move, just listening through the blank plates of their helms. “We have a mission. You heard some of it from Cob.”
“To kill Enkhaelen? To do something with these Seals?”
“To close them. We—“
“We know where his real body is!” interjected Fiora. “All we need to do is access it, but it's hidden behind the throne, so we need to follow them and—“
Kelturin gestured at the Trifolder, still watching Dasira. “Who is this?”
With a sigh, she said, “Kel, Fiora. Fiora, Kel. She's right; we have to go after Rackmar's lot, so we can get to Enkhaelen's body before they kill Cob.”
“Because he's important to you?”
“He is, all right?” she said, tired of that look on his face. “I won't apologize for choosing him. You and Enkhaelen didn't give me many options.”
“If you cared for me, you would have captured him as ordered,” he said coldly.
Her hands fisted. Stepping forward, aware that this was unwise but incapable of keeping it in, she snapped, “I always cared for you! But
this has never been about you, don't you see? Neither the good parts nor the bad. It's been Enkhaelen against the Emperor this whole time, and the rest of us are their game-pieces. Me against Cob, me against you, Rackmar against you, them against us. Everything you've gone through, everything you've struggled for and suffered, everyone you've loved and lost—it's all been orchestrated. You know that!”
He blanched.
“We have to stop it!” she continued, still approaching. “Those two bastards have twisted every aspect of our lives, and we never had a chance before this. We never even knew we could be free. Kel, if you turn away now—if you let them win—it will never end. You'll always be exactly what you are.”
“And what is that?” he said tightly.
“A prisoner. Just like us.”
He looked away, and she saw the muscles tense in his jaw, the wraith-wrought sword shifting surreptitiously on his shoulders. It was hooked to him by extrusions of its own glassy substance, and she'd seen it in action enough to know that it served his will—or at least listened.
After a moment, he said, “I can't.”
Anger took her. “Can't?” she screeched, uncaring of the blade. “What are you, a coward? Even cripples confront their challenges! You've complained about this all your life, and now you say you—“
“Stop!” he said, stepping back. The look on his face was strained, wounded. “There's nothing we can do. Even if these troops followed me, they're not enough, and I can't guarantee anything while in the Palace. When my father's will is set, I can barely even find the path! It can't be done, Vedaceirra. Especially not if Enkhaelen is hiding behind the piking throne.”
She halted, gritting her teeth. The whole plan had been a long-shot from the start but she wasn't willing to let it end like this. “Then give us some robes and let us go. We'll take care of it.”
“I can't do that either.”
“Kel—“
“No.” The emotion fled his face, leaving him stony. “No, I won't disobey my orders. Rackmar gave you to me with the understanding that I'd keep you in custody until the boy is dead.”
Her stomach sank. She saw Fiora reach for her sword, and was considering going for her own weapon—going out like a fighter—when the prince added, “We'll have to be there, of course. To witness it.”
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 94