Surprised as she was, Lark immediately said, “The wolf too. Arik, come with us.”
The wolf's ears twitched, but when he looked back, it was to shake his heavy head.
“Don't be foolish,” said Lark. “You can't help Cob anymore. We're done.”
A long, silent stare, then the wolf turned forward again.
She caught herself about to yell at him, and closed her mouth. He adored Cob; she didn't. He was the consummate loyalist; she had no problem jumping ship. Ever since she'd left her family in Fellen, she'd felt rootless, dissatisfied, but she couldn't force him to feel the same.
She missed Bahlaer and Cayer and the kai, but some part of her wondered if she could ever call that a home.
“Have it your way,” she mumbled, then looked to Maevor. He nodded, and together they slowed to a stop, letting the column move on without them. A few others did the same, though no one she recognized, just poor saps who had been swept up in this.
As pilgrims spilled by to crowd out her view of her friends, she felt a twinge of regret. She'd grown to like them—Dasira the most, somehow. But they were very different people. She'd already walked away once. This time, she'd make it stick.
The two of them drifted to the edge of the road to avoid the crowds, and for a while they just stood there, looking in separate directions. Lark didn't really see anything; her interest in the city was all feigned, and her eyes were foggy anyway. She blamed the unnatural humidity.
After a while, he finally said, “Why me?”
She didn't look at him, just stared down at the canal below. “You're not so bad. And you don't love the Light as much as you say you do, else we wouldn't be here.”
“You're wrong.”
“No. You love it like I love my mother. I owe her. She made me, raised me. But she's someone I never want to emulate—one I can't even be near anymore. She didn't think of me as a person, just an asset, and what I wanted or needed didn't matter. I know how your kind are made. You can't tell me it's not the same.”
Another silence. Then he said, “Are you going to jump?”
After a moment's surprise, she realized she could. They had used elementals like Ripple to survive in Hlacaasteia; maybe it could keep her head above water in the canal, help her swim. Looking down its length, she thought she saw it flow into a tunnel near the outskirts of the city. Did it spill into the swamp?
But what then? Even if it wasn't the suicide Maevor implied, it was still a probable death. She couldn't walk her way out of the swamp easily, and she'd never been alone in the wilderness.
“Are you?” she said.
He laughed, but there was something cracked about it. “Maybe. You're not right, but...you're not that wrong either. I wake up some days and I don't remember anything. Who I am, what I'm doing... It all just feels like stories. Like something someone told me and I adopted into myself.”
“You don't know who you were?”
“I think I volunteered to forget that. It worked, but...too well, maybe. The roles are fine—they give me shape—but when I try to see myself, there's nothing there.”
They stood for a while, staring down at the water, until finally she reached out and grabbed him by the sleeve. “Come on, let's walk,” she said, and he followed without protest as she led to a spindly bridge and crossed into the city proper. She didn't know where she was going or what she could do, just that she was tired of contemplation—tired of waiting for the end.
When his hand caught hers, she knew he was too.
*****
Dasira had to speed-walk to keep up with the Crown Prince's long strides. At her side, Fiora did the same; from behind, she heard Arik's breath wheezing through his teeth.
Others in their entourage had fallen behind entirely. She'd glanced back once as they started up the rise, but despite her keen sight she'd been unable to spot Lark or Maevor. The rest of the prisoners straggled after them, spreading out their White Flame guards just as thinly.
It was an opportune time to fight free, but she knew she'd need the prince's help to get anywhere.
The incline was faintly tacky beneath her boots, making it easy to keep her footing. In fact, she'd been feeling better ever since entering the city, each step injecting a thin rush of energy into her. The Palace material in her torso felt firmer and stronger, all her threads vibrant, her mind clear. As much as she hated to admit it, it felt good to be home.
Ahead, the Palace entry gaped like a mouth full of needle teeth. They had overtaken many clusters of pilgrims along the way, but more struggled on ahead of them, just as determined to stand before the Throne as they were. No guards impeded them; Midwinter meant free access to the Emperor for anyone who desired it and was able to tolerate the lines.
“How much further?” said Fiora beside her. The Trifolder girl's face was red from exertion, one hand fixed on the hilt of the sword over her shoulder, the other fisted at her side. Dasira was impressed she could keep up—but then, she'd been running with Cob for weeks now. Who knew how much the Guardian had changed her?
“Don't know,” she answered. “Layout changes from day to day. Throne room could be near, or it could be at the ass-end of the structure.”
“It's at the middle,” said Kelturin from ahead. “Maybe a half-mark, through the crowds.”
Fiora raised her voice for him. “Can't you part them? You're the prince!”
“I'm just another soldier here.”
Dasira smiled tightly. That might be technically true, but she doubted any soldier would impede him without a direct order. The White Flames held him in as much reverence as they did the Emperor.
Not that he'd either acknowledged or accepted it. He wanted to be human; perhaps that was why he'd failed. Cultivating his own fanatical following might have let him change the balance of this conflict, but that opportunity had been lost.
It was a relief when they finally surmounted the rise and stepped past the threshold into the Palace. Dasira saw Fiora's face tighten as they left the sky behind, but the radiant walls energized her; she tapped a constant rhythm on Serindas' hilt, just waiting for the chance to use it. The main hall ran broad and straight for a while before branching into a profusion of corridors, some curving away to reemerge as second-floor cross-bridges and others vanishing into the depths of the structure. No signs or guides marked the way; pilgrims seemed to pick their routes at random, pushed onward by the press of those behind.
In contrast, the prince moved unerringly, cutting through the confused groups by virtue of his bulk and status. As he passed, Dasira glimpsed pilgrims turning toward him until she got the feeling they were diverting the entire flow of the mob toward their goal.
Ahead, the paths continued to branch and converge at random, the crowds thinning down to handfuls of bemused wanderers. Dasira wondered if it was always like this—the Emperor playing with his little toys, leading them in constant loops until he was ready for them.
How many of the pilgrims ever actually reached him?
So she was surprised when a familiar figure stepped out from a side-channel ahead of them, fiddling neurotically with her rings: Anniavela. The lagalaina looked odd in white, too tawny-gold for such monochrome, with her neckline cut typically low to display her assets.
“Kel,” said the woman, “there you are. I've been worried. The Field Marshal passed by only moments ago, and—“
“Stand aside,” said the Crown Prince.
Startled, she did so, only to fall in line beside him as he passed. Dasira found herself right on the lagalaina's heels, and the urge to stab went down her arm like a crawling itch. Beneath her fingers, Serindas agreed.
“You can't mean to fight him,” said the lagalaina. “It's foolishness. I'm sorry for what I said before, but—“
“No, you're not,” said the prince without looking at her. “You want back into my favor, that's all. We've done this dance a thousand times.”
“I fear for you! Those two, Rackmar and Enkhaelen, they're worse than the
y've ever been. Something bad is bound to happen, and I can't let you—“
“You can't stop me.”
She grabbed his arm but he shook her off with a sharp motion, sending her backward into Dasira. Instinctively Dasira raised an arm to brace the woman, her other hand half-sliding Serindas from its sheath. It would be so easy...
But Annia made a pitiable sound of distress and tried to straighten, so Dasira just pushed her forward.
“Kel, please,” she said.
The prince picked up his pace.
Annia reached out as if to catch his arm again, but her hand faltered, then fell. She moved aside as if to break from the column.
On impulse, Dasira grabbed her arm and hauled her along.
The lagalaina looked down at her in surprise, honey-colored eyes wide. A glint of red reflected in them, and Dasira realized she still held Serindas half-drawn. “Vedaceirra?” the woman gasped, falling into step with her.
“Dasira,” she muttered.
“Whatever you want to call yourself, dear.” Then, flippancy giving way to concern, she said, “Why are you here? What's going on?”
“Same as last time.”
“What, the boy?” She glanced forward. “That was him, with them? I knew he looked familiar...”
“Was he all right?”
Her uncomfortable expression told Dasira enough. Cursing under her breath, she let go of the lagalaina's sleeve. “Get yourself somewhere safe.”
“I'm right, aren't I? They've been at each other's throats for ages, and now—“
“Go,”
“No.”
At Dasira's glance, the lagalaina lifted her chin imperiously. “I have a responsibility to the Crown Prince and the Empress. If we are truly walking into a conflict at the foot of the Imperial Throne, then I must be there for Her Majesty.”
Dasira winced. It had been so long since her last visit, and so long since the Empress had been sane, that she'd nearly forgotten her. She would be up there on the dais in the second, smaller throne, smiling vaguely down upon the proceedings—no matter what they were.
“You have to get her out of here,” she said. “Before the Emperor uses her—“
“Against Kel. Yes, obviously.” Then the lagalaina's lips twisted with distress. “You think he will join the fray?”
“I don't know, but there'll be a fight either way.”
“This is a disaster. I can't manage the Empress on my own, and you— Oh! Ama, dear!” Dasira glanced in the direction Annia was calling and saw another lagalaina among the entourage—the dark-haired one who had been marched down to the village along with the other prisoners. She looked vaguely familiar. “Ama, come with me, you must help.”
The dark lagalaina narrowed her eyes, then gave a reluctant nod.
“Good, good.” As Annia turned forward again, Dasira caught the mistiness in her gaze. “We can at least take her somewhere quiet. Make her comfortable.”
Dasira grunted.
“And what about you?” said the lagalaina, swatting her shoulder. “The last time I saw you, you were a man! And you'd switched sides! And you stabbed me in the back!”
“In my defense, you were being a bitch.”
To her surprise, what came next from Annia's mouth was not a curse or a screech but a laugh, though a harsh one. “Oh yes, blame me for my injury. Just like one of them.”
“I'm not—“ Dasira shut her mouth. This wasn't the time to fight, or to consider whether or not Annia was right. “Look, I'm sorry. I wish I could have done it differently, but you didn't give me much choice. I avoided your spine though.”
“I missed you too.”
“Ugh. Let's not get sappy.”
The glance Annia gave her was both amused and reproving. She almost smirked in return, but caught herself. She wasn't ready to mend fences.
Maybe after this was done.
“Eyes forward,” she said. “It can't be long now. We have to make sure our boys don't get themselves killed.”
Annia nodded, and together they marched like sisters to war.
*****
As the great double-doors of the throne room came in sight, Shaidaxi Enkhaelen struggled to contain his excitement. Even if it didn't show on his face, the mentalists beyond the doors would feel it and communicate it to the Emperor—that great and terrible wild-card. The less he knew, the more curious he would be, and the longer Enkhaelen could string this out...
It took him a few steps to realize that the others had stopped short.
Turning, he saw Rackmar extend a blade of white filaments from beneath his ceremonial armor. It was no surprise; Enkhaelen had been there when the Field Marshal submitted to the process, kneeling before the Throne as the White Flame suit wove around him and filled his many wounds. But with Cob at his right hand...
“I don't trust you,” the Field Marshal growled, tilting the blade toward the boy's neck.
For the first time in a while, Enkhaelen looked at Cob. He'd felt something happen while his back was turned, and had glimpsed an emptiness beneath the others' spells, but had forced himself not to focus on it; this close to his captors, they could almost see through his eyes. Looking now, though, he recognized the Guardian's absence, and saw the thin line of blackness that ran from the corner of his mouth to fall drop by drop onto the floor.
Oh Cob.
He dared not look around in case one of his fail-safes had triggered, but this did not bode well. Another misstep and his plan could collapse.
He tried for bravado. “What does it matter? We're already here. Let's get this over with.”
“True,” said Rackmar, “we are already in the Palace. No soul can escape it, and I daresay no spirit either. So it occurs to me that I have no need to bring this one to the Throne.” The blade grazed Cob's throat, drawing a bead of blood; insensate, empty, he didn't move.
“You want your trophy now?” said Enkhaelen. “Premature, don't you think? The Emperor has yet to judge us, and he can't do so through the doors.”
The Field Marshal sneered. “And that is what you want, isn't it? To bring this pretense before our master. Not to win, since you have no chance of it, but to prove some accursed point. Well, your game is over! I will permit it no more!”
“Who are you to dictate the Emperor's pleasure?”
“This is not his, it is yours! We have all been dancing on your strings. It is time that they be cut.”
With that, he raised the white blade high. The word halt caught on Enkhaelen's tongue; if he used it, Rackmar would only enjoy his kill the more, and the boy was a husk now. Valueless.
Yet not without use. As long as Rackmar thought he held the Guardian, he was still a piece in the game.
“Coward,” he said instead, putting a laugh into it. “You're like a child who kicks over the game-table when he's about to lose.”
“I will not lose!” the Field Marshal bellowed. The blade hovered above Cob's bent head. “This is the end for you!”
“Well, go ahead then. I don't care. Just don't rant and rave like this when we're in front of the Emperor. You're like a rabid boar; it's embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?” Rackmar echoed coldly.
Enkhaelen turned up his smirk. “Certainly. I dread the day when you work yourself into such a froth that your withered little heart fails and I'm forced to resuscitate you. You could at least do me the favor of cropping that crotch-growth beard so I can find your mouth.”
“What did you just say?”
He didn't answer; it wasn't necessary. He'd learned long ago that a high, derisive laugh was more infuriating to such men than any insult.
It caught Rackmar like a hook. Fury flamed in his eyes, and he took a step forward almost unwittingly, hostage forgotten. The white sword quivered in his hand, tendrils separating as his concentration failed. From the way his heavy jaw clenched, Enkhaelen knew he was trying to resist the urge—trying to stay on task despite the war-drum in his ears, the red pulse of hate.
So Enkha
elen pointed at him and laughed harder. It wasn't difficult to feign. This was his favorite part of the job.
His scorn uprooted Rackmar's feet, and suddenly the man was rushing him: three hundred pounds of flesh and steel unbound by the niceties of court. He let it happen—the hands on his neck heaving him up and back, slamming him into the white material of the great doors like a carcass onto the butcher's block. Struggle was necessary, so he kicked ineffectively at Rackmar's ribs with slippered feet, clawed at his gauntlets with bare hands.
Thick thumbs pressed into the hollow of his throat. From this close, he saw the veins bulging on Rackmar's brow and pulsing in his neck, caught the adrenaline-stink in his sweat. His nails found the gaps in the gauntlets; if he wanted, he could light the bastard up from the inside—roast him like a hog.
But if he did, the Emperor might not open the door.
So he held his power and just wriggled futilely, because Rackmar liked that. Shade by shade, the blood left the Field Marshal's face until he was calm again, teeth gleaming like polished tombstones through his beard, eyes black wells.
“I almost wish you'd come out to play,” he growled. “So I could do this for real.”
“Come get me.”
Rackmar threw him to the floor instead, then kicked him when he tried to rise. No wards flared; he'd dispelled them all for this. He faked a groan, then a yelp when the Field Marshal's hand clamped in his hair.
“I've changed my mind,” said the big man, grinning nastily. “We'll have a chat with the Emperor, you and I. Everyone else can stay out here until we're done.”
Under his other hand, the great double-doors cracked open.
Shit, he thought, grasping for inspiration. It wasn't enough that he be in the throne room; he needed the Guardian too, or one of the other fail-safes he'd set. But the doors began closing again as soon as Rackmar dragged him through, and he couldn't think of a lie that wouldn't end in someone's swift execution. He'd done his work too well.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 101