The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1)

by Davis, H. Anthe

  Then tiny cold feet pattered up his back, and he barely stopped himself from flailing in shock. A small lizard emerged over his shoulder, blinking its milky inner eyelids at him. On the nearby rock, the crow lifted its head in sudden interest.

  Cob stared at the lizard, and the lizard stared at him. Finally he extended a cautious finger to it, bracing himself for a bite, but its jaws stayed shut and its scaly tail whisked once across his shoulder blade.

  “Hoi, little guy,” he whispered, fascinated despite himself. Kerrindryr was too cold for reptiles, and the only ones he had seen in the army had been the big desert snakes that the outriders sometimes brought back to cook.

  It just stared at him. On the rock, the crow shifted and flexed its wings as if pondering a pounce.

  All at once, a skittering filled the undergrowth. Cob looked up to see the hares vanish and the fox dart back into cover. In the middle of the river, the garto raised its head and hissed, its beak gaping to show a thin black tongue. The lizard leapt off his shoulder and plopped into the water, and the crow fluffed up in indignation.

  “I have your clothes!” Morshoc called from the shore.

  Cob looked back to see the Corvishman waving from slightly upstream, a packet tucked under one arm and a bundle in his hand. With some reluctance, Cob waded toward shore

  “Making friends?” Morshoc asked as they converged by the ruined garments. Cob lurked in the water, and Morshoc regarded him questioningly before realization dawned; then he snorted. “Ah yes, Drixi prudery. It’s not like I’ve never seen a man’s bits before.”

  “Well, you’re not seein’ mine. Jus’ leave the clothes.”

  “How did you ever survive in the army?”

  But Morshoc set the bundle on dry ground and headed for the cart, and after a moment Cob emerged to pick through it. Loin-wrap, breeches, tunic—the outer-clothes blue and brown, much plainer than Ammala’s gifts but serviceable. He wrapped up quickly and was pulling on the tunic when Morshoc said, “Did you know we have a stowaway?”

  “What?” he called back, and gathered up the ruined clothes. They were soggy and gory but he felt weird about leaving them. He slung the canteen over his shoulder, grabbed the letter from the bush and picked his way quickly through the bracken to the cart.

  On the bench sat Morshoc, rusty brows arched. In the back, at the very edge of the cart-bed, crouched a goblin with Ammala’s bundle clutched in its spindly arms. It hissed at Morshoc but quieted as Cob drew near.

  Cob eyed it warily. The bald pate with its zigzags of red paint, the black harness… “Rian,” he said, surprised to remember the creature’s name.

  The goblin’s notched ears twitched and it looked to him with big eyes. “Lark say catch! I catch!”

  “Lark? When?”

  “Him zap.” It pointed an accusing finger at Morshoc, who regarded it mildly.

  “Um…what?” said Cob. He reached the edge of the cart and considered the situation. The goblin did not instill in him the same revulsion as it had at first sight, but its presence put him on edge and he did not want to get close to it. He wanted to kick it for distance, really. Yet it looked small and pitiful, hugging the bundle like that. And Lark had sent it for some purpose.

  Curse that woman. I don’t want anything to do with her Shadow Cult plots.

  With a sigh, he slung himself into the cart-bed and slid up toward the bench, trying to keep away from Rian. Immediately the goblin maneuvered to put him between itself and Morshoc. “Catch!” it said, its black gaze fixed fearfully on the Corvishman.

  Morshoc snorted and picked up the reins. “I don’t know why your friend sent that, but it’s not coming with us.”

  “She’s not a friend.” Cob eyed the goblin and it gave him an importuning look. It was really quite small. Inhuman and unsettling, but childlike and obviously frightened. He felt a pang of pity. “D’you know the way home?” he asked it quietly.

  “Ys.”

  “Will you go?”

  “No!"

  He chewed his lip. “But y’ caught me. Your work is done.”

  The goblin hugged the bundle tighter, staring up at him sadly. Cob tried to harden his heart but he could not be angry at something that had done him no wrong. I'm a sap, he thought. A sucker. My ancestors would be rolling in their graves.

  “It’s all right,” he told Morshoc, resigned. “The Shadow Cult helped me—or tried to, anyhow. If it's here for that, I guess it can stay.”

  The Corvishman gave him an odd look, then rolled his eyes skyward. “Fine. But I’m not feeding it.”

  “Hunt!” the goblin chirped.

  With a great sigh, Morshoc snapped the reins and set the cart in motion.

  Cob clutched the cart-edge to keep from sliding around as the wheels crunched through brush. The goblin clung as well, one arm still wrapped around the bundle. As they bumped up the embankment and lurched over it, Cob gritted his teeth and thought, I’m a passenger on my own piking pilgrimage.

  The cart rattled over the ruts, then settled in again, and the ride smoothed. With his teeth no longer juddering together, Cob took a deep breath, tore his gaze from the goblin and said to Morshoc, “Talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Yourself. Who are you? Why do you know so much? You said you’re my other half…”

  Morshoc was silent a moment, then said, “Aekarlis. The tribal name for my spirit. I’m a vessel like you, but mine is associated with the lighter elements--air, fire, metal. The sterile instead of the generative.”

  “The what?”

  “Fertile. Things grow from darkness into the light. Nothing is born from air, fire or metal; even birds need trees.”

  “Except the Muriae, right? They’re made of silver.”

  Morshoc glanced back briefly, not long enough for Cob to gauge his expression. His voice stayed level. “The Muriae are elementals. They have no blood, no bones, no breath--no body generated from wood and water and earth, no need for air, no passionate fire. Only metal. Only one type of metal, even more restrictive. They are never truly born, nor can they truly die. They are not alive as we consider it.

  “Some choose to live like people, but you shouldn’t mistake that for being human. They were never animals. They do not have our drives, our instincts, our thought-patterns. While there are ways of integrating with an elemental line, you’re far more likely to be related to your goblin friend than to the Muriae, no matter what the Kerrindrixi legends say.”

  Cob looked at Rian, and Rian looked back at him. In horror, Cob said, “What?”

  “Well, your people have lived in the mountains for a long time. In the cold, dark nights of the Kerrindrixi winter, many strange things have been known to—“

  “This isn’t what I asked.”

  “No? Oh. What, then?”

  “You.”

  “I’m just a vessel, unimportant. Our spirits are what matter.”

  “And mine is a Dark thing, but yours is of the Light?”

  Morshoc made an aggravated sound. “Piking Imperialistic worldview… No. The Dark and the Light are beyond everything. Humanity, spirits, this world, the gods, everything. They are massive, incomprehensible forces whose only goal is to annihilate all else—anything that casts a shadow and anything that shines a light. You and I, and our Great Spirits, are so much smaller than that conflict that we can not say we stand on either side. None of the spirits can.

  “And before you ask, spirits are not souls. Souls are a human anomaly; they are born with you and depart when you die. They can be marked by a god or a spirit or whatnot, but they’re always you. The Guardian can’t displace or consume your soul, so don’t worry.”

  I’m not, Cob wanted to say, but that would be lying. Still, the thought that though something else dwelt inside him, the true him was still there, eased his nerves marginally.

  “Spirits, on the other hand, are shared among all of the creatures that belong to them,” Morshoc continued. “All wolves carry a piece of the Wolf spirit, a
ll Muriae a piece of the Silver spirit. When a creature bearing a piece of a spirit dies, that piece returns to the greater spirit to live on.

  “Once, we were that spirit. Aesangat and Aekarlis were two halves of a whole—the progenitor of all, the Great Spirit of Life. But we split a long time ago, and in doing so we began to lose cohesion. The beast spirits were born from us, and each birth took some of our power away, until we had to reach to the elements for stability. You chose the tidal elements, the so-called ‘dark’ ones, which wax and wane and change shape but never lose their essence, just as darkness can never become light. Water freezes to ice, evaporates to steam, coalesces into water again; the earth sleeps in winter but awakes at the thaw, new and old at the same time.

  “I, on the other hand, chose the ephemeral ‘light’ elements. They can be dispersed and don’t always return, but can also appear as if from nothing. The potential for them always exists.

  “Wood and metal are on the cusp. They share in both aspects, but long ago the Guardian chose wood and I chose metal, and so wood is now considered dark and metal light. It doesn’t mean that either of us stand for or against your Empire, just that this is the way we chose to shape ourselves long ago, and that though we might want the same things, we are forced to go about them in different ways. The Guardian is slow to rouse, slow to anger, but unstoppable once it gets moving, while I’m quick; I flash hot and cold on a whim. We need each other to maintain a balance. So now I’m here with you.”

  Cob stared at Morshoc’s back, not sure what to think. After a moment, Morshoc glanced to him and said, “Does that make sense?”

  “It makes my head hurt.”

  “Ah. Perhaps your brain is too small for the long words.”

  “Hoi!”

  “But I suppose that’s my fault. I shouldn’t lecture to a mountain boy. Maybe if I used very small words. Shall I try again, and you can grunt when you understand?”

  Cob just glowered, and Morshoc flashed him a vulpine grin before returning his attention to the road. “Not even a grunt,” he said. “Ah well, a lost cause.”

  “Listen, all that spirit stuff might be what you crazy people believe, but I know that we were made by the Light, ‘cept for a tiny sliver of Darkness that slipped in while he was shapin’ us. Sometimes it talks to us and lets other Dark things in. The…the monster in me, and maybe the one in you? They’re those other Dark things. I know it, and I don’t wanna be eaten by it. Jus’ tell me how to get free.”

  “You know? Who told you, the priests of the Imperial Light?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They don’t follow the true Light.”

  Cob scowled deeply. Lark had said something similar, along with her blather about the Light and Dark both shaping life equally, but he knew that could not be true. The Dark in him was like an evil seed—tenacious, but tiny. Nowhere near half of him. “You’re wrong.”

  “Well, have it your way. It’s fascinating what people will believe when they have no idea of the truth.”

  “And the truth is that we’re made of dirt and twigs?”

  “What else would we be made of?”

  “Meat.”

  Morshoc laughed. “Ah, so says the herdsman. And true, from a carnivore's view, but…I won’t get into it. Peasants.”

  “Yeah? And what are you, Corvishman?”

  Morshoc did not answer, and Cob sat back with a feeling of triumph for having bested the wordy man. In the quiet that reigned thereafter, he remembered the letter in his hand and tucked it into the canvas casing around his canteen. In the opposite corner, Rian still clung to the bundle, pointy chin perched on it like a child peering over a low table, and from the way the goblin looked between Cob and Morshoc, Cob could tell it sensed the tension even if it did not understand.

  Cob felt a rush of fellow feeling toward the goblin. At least he was not alone with his ‘other half’.

  Abruptly, Morshoc said, “I came for you because there are more forces at work than just the Empire.”

  “Yeah, like the cults,” Cob muttered.

  “Precisely. The Guardian is a powerful spirit, but being trapped inside you makes it vulnerable—to enemies and ‘allies’ alike. There are more than a few entities who want us on their side and are willing to force us if we can’t be convinced, just as there are plenty who want us dead. And you’ve been filled to the brim with traps and bonds; you probably can’t even hear the Guardian.”

  Cob grimaced. If the nightmares and the dark sea were what passed for ‘hearing’ this Guardian spirit, he wished he could plug his ears further. “Not really. It’s supposed t’talk?”

  “It’s supposed to mesh with you the moment it enters you. Transmit all its knowledge. The fact that I have to explain any of this tells me it has failed. Problematic.”

  “Then jus’ help me get it out!”

  “What do you think I can do?”

  “I-- I dunno, you’re the other spirit. Do some spirit thing.”

  Sounding amused, Morshoc said, “You’re bound by arcane magic. Spirits don’t have much power against it. Your Guardian is the one best equipped to destroy hostile spellcraft, but that doesn’t do you much good when you’re inside the box. As Aekarlis, I do have a few options for breaking you out of there, but they’re not easy and I can’t do them on the road.”

  “Well then pull over.”

  “We don’t have time. You realize we’re being pursued, yes?”

  Cob squinted out the back of the cart. In their wake, clouds hung heavy over the dry golden plains, and dust veiled the road from cross-traffic between the villages that flanked it. He could no longer see Bahlaer, and wondered how far they had come in the night.

  “By the Crimsons,” he said, subdued. “By—“ Darilan.

  “Indeed.”

  Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Cob forced himself to think. He still wanted to be cleansed—even more so than before—and if that meant the Imperial Light would destroy this unpleasant heirloom of his father, than so be it. But he rather doubted Morshoc would let that happen, and if the Corvishman had spirit-powers like what Cob had manifested in the Shadow Cult tavern, then he was insanely dangerous. Cob could not just run away.

  I could surrender us both to the Crimsons. Maybe the Empire would release my bonds and destroy the Dark spirit, let me live…

  No. That was naïve. And Morshoc, though abrasive, had done nothing to merit betrayal. Which left Morshoc’s offer of releasing him once they were no longer pursued.

  He sighed heavily and said, “Whatever gets me out of this mess.”

  “So agreeable.”

  “But then you have to promise to leave the Empire alone.”

  Morshoc’s shoulders stiffened beneath the layers of coat and cloak. “What?”

  “You and the Guardian. You Dark spirits can pike off and do your own thing, but I won’t be responsible for unleashin’ you on the Empire again. You said this thing’s been a thorn in our side since—“

  “Your side? Your side? Do you have any idea—“ Morshoc cut himself off, took a short breath, then cast a scathing look over his shoulder at Cob. His near-black eyes were wild with anger. “The Phoenix Empire is on no one’s side but the Emperor’s,” he said through his teeth, “and the Emperor serves only himself. Not the land, not the people, not your supposed Imperial Light. He wants us dead not because we plague him but because we exist, just as he has worked to bring down myriad spirits, elementals— Even a piking god.”

  “A heretic god—“

  “Law.”

  Cob blinked. “The Lord Knight? That’s ridiculous. He wasn't even a god. And anyway, his death and the murder of the First Light is what brought on the Long Darkness. The Imperial Light didn’t rise until after that.”

  “Ever wonder why?” said Morshoc snidely. “Or don’t you know about the Nemesis?”

  “The Lady of Assassins?“

  “Of course that’s what you’ve been taught.” Morshoc sighed and turned forward to watch the road,
but kept speaking, some of the venom leaving his voice. “She wasn’t always the Lady of Assassins. Once she was the Lady of Knowledge, and called by another name than Nemesis—one that could actually get her attention, instead of a label used to keep her from eavesdropping. All of the gods can hear you when you call them by name.”

  Cob flinched.

  “She used to be benevolent, and numbered among the six Ladies said to provide inspiration to the world: Fervor, Shelter, Shaping, Seeking, Frenzy and Ruin. They stood in balance with the three Lords who oversaw the world--Light, Shadow and Law—and separate from the uncivilized gods of Death and Dreams. Humanity’s pantheon, you could say, because all other creatures are ruled by the spirits.”

  “What about the Dark?” said Cob as Morshoc drew a new breath. This was all unfamiliar to him; while he recognized the Lord Knight and now the Shadow Lord from Lark’s ranting, and had heard of the Lady of Assassins in passing, he had always thought the Lord Knight was the Light’s lieutenant, and the others just part of the Dark.

  Morshoc made a sound of annoyance. “I already told you this. The Dark is not a god, it’s a force. So is the true Light. The Light we know here is a lesser light, a tolerable light, not the Scouring Light. Just as the darkness here is merely a shadow, not the Hungry Dark. Now shut up.”

  Reluctantly, Cob complied.

  “Anyway. Three of the six Ladies make up the Trifold Goddess: the Maiden of Fervor, the Mother of Shelter and the Matron of Shaping. The other three oppose them: the Nemesis of Seeking, the Blood Goddess of Frenzy, and the Queen of Masks, Lady Ruin. But they did not always belong to these sides, because once upon a time, the Nemesis was known by her old name, and she was the partner of the God of Law.

  “Though the gods are not mortals, the ones who dealt with us most often picked up some of our traits. Love, doubt, jealousy. And it was said that Law and Knowledge were not merely partners—they were lovers. So when rumor reached her that he was philandering, she did as any scorned woman might do.