“And you will break no laws, not of the Army and not of the Empire.
“Finally…”
He took a deep breath, considering his next words. The General understood many things, but he had never been a footsoldier or an enlistee, never been stripped of his rank for speaking up. Never been mindwashed. The General had always known about the chosen in the ranks and could not feel the fury of those exiled here, or the fears of the men with families elsewhere, the horrors that had been all but washed away. The General did not know how easy it was for his men to fall into doubt, so far from home and with such a stymied, pay-cut conquest as their mission.
The Crimson General did not even follow the Light. Sarovy still did not know why.
He began slowly.
“To all who stay, I will not lie. We are on the ragged edge. We have been stopped in our tracks, and there is no easy way to go forward. Blaze Company is the first attempt to change this game, and if we fail, the Crimson Army may never move from this spot.
“But we will not fail. All those soldiers and all those mages?” He gestured toward the walled compound. “All those who were not selected for this?
“We are better than them.
“Because we are not willing to be silenced, not willing to be blinded. As the ancient knights were persecuted by the Dark, so we have been herded and controlled by mandates that distrust our loyalty and deny our combined strength. Today, we ring the first death-knell to such foolishness and prove to our General and our Empire that we are not cowards to be driven by magi, not children to be led with illusions, but men of honor and conviction: Imperial soldiers worthy of Imperial trust, ready to bring down the hammer of the Light upon its enemies.”
The roar of approval that went up from the crowd was gratifying. In the front row, Sarovy saw Houndmaster Vrallek, his ugly face a knot of emotions—more complicated than he could discern, but somewhere in there was a smile. Sarovy lowered the voice-caster and allowed himself, briefly, to feel satisfied. It was a good start.
But success required more than impassioned speeches, and he had no intention of relying on them.
“Form up!” he snapped through the voice-caster, silencing the crowd. “This is merely the beginning of your day. We have our assignment. Lancers to your steeds, infirmary-cases to the wagons, the rest of you afoot. Lieutenants, move them out!”
Another ragged cheer swept through the crowd as the lieutenants turned and started barking orders. Sarovy held the voice-caster away and raked his other hand through his short hair. He saw Scryer Mako heading toward the horses with the lancers on her tail, saw men helping their ill comrades toward the wagons. Not a single soldier seemed to be heading for the camp gate.
“Captain,” said Sergeant Presh at his elbow. He turned and started to offer the voice-caster, but the Padrastan turncoat-mage held out a small silver object to him instead.
Sarovy took it gingerly: a narrow arc of metal with no obvious use.
“Put it around your ear, sir,” said Presh. “The General wishes to speak to you.”
Frowning, Sarovy managed to fumble it around his ear in a way that felt proper. “Ah…General?” he hazarded to thin air, feeling foolish.
“Captain Sarovy,” said the General’s voice in his ear, unnervingly intimate. Sarovy’s uniform collar suddenly felt two sizes too small. “Congratulations, it seems your address went over well.”
“You heard, sir?”
“Of course. I found your analysis of the situation to be quite interesting.”
Sarovy squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to remember what he had just said, but the whole speech had poured from him like so much water and now it was gone. “I spoke my mind, sir,” he said at last. “If I may ask, why the rushed deployment?”
“Best to take advantage of the break in the weather, captain.”
Sarovy nodded to himself, but though it was a dry day for the first time in weeks, the explanation did not ring true. He was trying to find a tactful way of mentioning that when the General said, “Keep up the good work. I’ll be in contact.” Then the silver arc shivered and went silent.
Inhaling through his teeth, Sarovy pulled the arcane object off and looked to Presh. This espionage for the General deepened his suspicion of the man, but he had nothing to hide from his commander. Perhaps it was for the best.
“Sergeant,” he said, holding up the silver object, “do you have more of these?”
The Padrastan’s mouth curved into a knowing smile. “We have many tricks, Captain. Perhaps when we reach our destination, we can demonstrate.”
Sarovy nodded and handed back the voice-caster and silver hook. About to comment further, he glimpsed a thatch of red hair among the milling soldiers and said, “Excuse me, Sergeant. Specialist Weshker!”
The black-clad redhead cringed, then turned with a sheepish salute. “Yessir?”
Sarovy crooked a finger and Weshker slunk closer, shoulders slumped like he expected to be hit. His black scout uniform was buttoned lopsidedly and there were fresh scratches on his neck. “I was told that you’ve been out of contact for some time,” said Sarovy. “Your spirit studies with the woman Sanava are progressing?”
“Studies, eh, yeh,” said Weshker, looking everywhere but at him. “We gettin’ me back into the Corvish mindset. But we en’t done yet, so I should go fetch her along, right?”
Sarovy stared down at the redhead until it seemed Weshker might fidget himself to death. Then he said, “No. You seem to require some time on your own.”
“But—“
“I presume she has taught you enough for preliminary independent study.”
“Er…”
Sarovy narrowed his eyes.
“Er, yeh! ‘Course!”
“Then I expect you to do so, and to make measurable progress. Do you understand?”
“Yessir!”
“Join your section. Do not look back.”
“Yessir.” And with another ragged salute, Weshker scurried off in pursuit of the scouts.
“Bit of a fool, that one,” said Sergeant Presh, then blanched when Sarovy turned the same narrow stare on him. “Sir, I—“
“The rules I set down for this company apply to mages as well as soldiers,” Sarovy said quietly. “You are no different from any of my men, and I will not hear disrespect from your mouth. Do you understand?”
Sergeant Presh stared at him, foreign features momentarily unreadable, then inclined his head. “You have a keen will, sir. It is a shame that you chose the path of war, not the path of magic. I understand and will comply.”
“Good. Return to your platoon.”
Presh gave a sharp salute, then headed off to the specialists. After a moment of watching him, Sarovy swept a last look over the barrow hills, where the dead of the Crimson Army were laid to rest, then along the walls of the camp itself. Sentinels watched from their posts atop the Barrow Gate, just red flecks in the distance.
Though it had been merely half a year, Sarovy had called this place home for longer than anywhere else since his exile. It felt strange to turn his back on it—strange that he might never see it again, given the vagaries of this war. But as he was commanded, so he would go.
It was all that he knew to do.
*****
Do not look back, the captain had said.
But Weshker couldn't help it.
Not that there was anything to see. Slave-women were not permitted outside the gates, and he caught no glint of copper and white from atop the wall or the warehouses beyond. Still, he looked and looked until his disgruntled scout-comrades shoved him forward to join the line.
Disheartened, he tried to focus forward, but the countryside blurred. He was not afraid of the captain finding out his fibs; what could be done about them, after all? But the thought of being gone for a while...
The thought of not coming back...
A flicker of motion caught his eye from atop one of the barrows. He did not know why he noticed it; there was enough
chaos around him, soldiers elbowing and arguing and officers shouting, that doing anything but marching in a straight line took a concentrated effort. But his gaze turned that way as if magnetized.
A crow stared back at him, its neck bent at a bizarre angle, its body twisted like it had been run over by a cart.
Head buzzing, he recognized part of the deformation: a 'V' and a '1'.
His slave-brand...?
Then a big specialist jostled into him and the other scouts, and a spate of curses and shoving ensued, with him trapped in the middle of the spontaneous hostilities. By the time one of the scout-corporals shouted the interloper down, they were well past the barrow hills and eating the dust of the road.
He looked back but saw nothing.
So he looked forward, afraid of what might lay ahead.
Chapter 16 – The High Necromancer
Under a pinkish sky and fleecy pastel clouds, the plaza teemed with Haarakash, stretching their legs in the late morning light or drawing water from the fountain or gossiping with friends. Or, in one case, giving directions to two turned-around outsiders.
“It was nice of him to give us free apples,” Fiora said, already nibbling at the shiny red fruit as they headed the way the man had pointed. Cob tossed his apple between his hands as he walked, not quite hungry, mind elsewhere.
They had spent the night outside, partially because it was gorgeous and partially because they had no idea where their lodgings were. Cob still felt discombobulated. He snuck glances at Fiora now and then, but she seemed blissfully absorbed in her apple and the complex’s sights. Her hair was pulled back in a messy braid, a few stray leaves and flower-petals clinging to it, and her eyes were as bright and eager as ever.
And now he knew just how eager. Their evening after the kiss had been a blur of scent and sound and sensation and an unfortunate tumble into a rosebush, which surprisingly had not put a damper on things. One of his socks was still stranded somewhere on that hill, but he had more in his pack.
Which was in his room. Wherever that was.
There were only so many towers in the complex, but for the life of him, he could not figure out which they had come from.
If Fiora felt awkward or regretful, she never showed it. The first thing on his mind when he woke up was whether he was about to get punched, but she had given him only a bright ‘good morning’ and gone back to watching the butterflies. And he had watched her, a host of apologies on the tip of his tongue, confused and anxious and a bit jealous of those butterflies, until she had turned around, taken his arm and kissed him on the cheek, then led him to town.
All in all, he liked that better than conversation.
The path wended past the gardens, brilliant with flowers and full of birds taking advantage of the thicker berry briars to steal the fruit the Haarakash could not reach. They did not flee as the pair passed, and Cob had to step around several waterfowl that had strayed up from a pond and laid claim to the path. The birds gave him evil looks, then smoothed their feathers and settled comfortably on the sun-warmed tiles.
“I thought birds liked you,” said Fiora around her apple. “All animals, really.”
Cob glanced sidelong at her. He had not considered it much, and gave a shrug. “S’pose they can’t tell I’m the Guardian in here.”
“Hmm.”
He wondered if he should be holding her hand. He had heard all sorts of stories about women from his camp-mates, but before two months ago, the closest he had gotten to any had been his mother and the medics at the infirmary. Now he was traveling with three of them and had just had a very intimate encounter, but he was still only vaguely aware of what women looked like under their clothes. It had been dark and he had been distracted.
He remembered how she had felt, though, under the sarong and the blouse. Warm and smooth and sleek of muscle, the arcs of her ribs just tangible under his hands, her mouth against his, her callused fingers digging into his chest…
He shook himself, blazing hot suddenly and knowing his face was red. It was one thing for it to have happened. It was another to know what to do now, like actually talk to her.
Idiot. You were talking to her just a moment ago. It’s not like she changed.
Something dark and fluttering caught his eye. He looked up, needing the distraction, and saw a brownish bird alight on the edge of the roof, perching awkwardly as if injured. Cob squinted at it, and it turned its head imperiously to meet his gaze.
A hawk? Odd, he thought.
“Oh ew,” said Fiora, “it’s kind of squishy. Hoi, look at this.” She tugged his arm, and when he did not immediately look, she held the apple up to his face. He frowned but glanced at it—then stared in surprise. Where the apple’s core should have been, the white flesh became soft pink and then red; at the very center it oozed slowly like a thick clot of blood. Fiora switched her apple for his, looking both revolted and intrigued, and drew the small utility knife she kept on her belt.
Cob pitched the half-eaten apple into the briars. When he glanced to the roof again, the hawk was gone. He scanned the sky.
“It’s in this one too,” said Fiora, holding up a red-edged apple slice. “Ew, ew. It doesn’t look like an insect or anything, just kind of…”
“Bloody,” said Cob. “Like everything else here.”
“Well…yes, I suppose. I don’t remember dinner being bloody though.”
“Does it taste like blood?”
“I don’t know, I’m not planning to lick it.”
Cob nabbed the apple from her hand and dabbed a finger in the middle, then tasted it, ignoring her horrified look. “Sort of sweet,” he decided, and offered it back. “Think that’s just how they are.”
“Ew, ew, ew.”
“Fine, I’ll eat it.”
He took a bite of the crisp flesh and chewed thoughtfully, detecting a slight metallic tang to the familiar flavor. Strange, but easy enough to ignore. The only difficult part, he soon realized, was keeping the gooey middle from dripping all over.
Still making faces, Fiora looked ahead, then pointed. “Hoi, I think someone’s waving to us. I think it’s the clerk!” Waving back vigorously, she nabbed Cob’s arm and pulled him forward, and he squinted through the brightly-garbed crowd. After a moment he saw the clerk standing by the side-entrance to the tower the apple merchant had pointed them toward.
“I wonder if they’re ready for you,” Fiora said. “But if they are, it means we won’t be here much longer. Can we come back some time?”
“If they’ll let us.” Privately Cob hoped not, for as beautiful as this place was, it troubled him. But there was no point in discussing that now.
As they approached, they saw the relief on the clerk’s face. “Honored visitors,” she said as they drew within earshot, “I am glad to find you. The Magistrate sent me to rouse you from your quarters earlier but you were not in residence.”
“Ah, sorry,” Cob said. “We were in the gardens. Hope we didn’t keep you waitin’ long.”
“A short while only. The High Necromancer is prepared for you, if you would follow me.”
Cob nodded, and the clerk set off swiftly toward another tower, which from a distance appeared to have no balconies or garden-side doors. No windows either. The pair paced the clerk determinedly, Cob tossing the remains of his apple into the brush.
By the time they reached the tower, Fiora’s hand had slid down to his. He clasped back with a nervous flutter in his gut, as much for the act of hand-holding as for what awaited within.
They passed through a wooden arch that held up the corridor-curtain, then followed the clerk to a rune-covered door in the center of the tower wall. She tapped lightly, and after a moment the door opened with a hiss of unsealing wards.
“The subject and his companion,” the clerk said.
The door opened wider. Holding it was a blindfolded young woman with long hair smoothed back into several braids, dressed in a simple burgundy garment that could not quite be called a robe, for it had
been cut down the front and wrapped tight around her to emphasize everything that benefited from emphasis. An embroidered sash cinched her waist, and painted symbols adorned her throat and bare forearms. She pressed her hands together and bowed slightly, smiling with very red lips, then said, “The High Necromancer has been waiting for you, Guardian. Please follow me.”
Cob managed to wrest his attention from her cleavage long enough to glance sidelong at Fiora, but Fiora was busy peeking into the room. Feeling guilty regardless, Cob headed in.
The ground floor was split by screens not unlike the clerk’s warren, but there were no windows and the whitewashed walls were covered in intricate patterns of runes. No rugs clad the floors; the inlays of intersecting circles and sigils there were not mosaic but solidly cast metal rings and carved stone pieces. Desks lined the walls but did not touch them, each covered in strange arcane paraphernalia: scrolls and bottles and candles and tools of bizarre make, bones both human and crystalline, pieces of rust-scarred metal, rocks and gems and strung beads, and all manner of herbs. Light came from a few runes near the ceiling, which throbbed with a clear pinkish glow.
Beneath the narrow stairs were stacks of crates and an articulated skeleton on a stand, every bone as fine and transparent as blown glass. Cob had not seen many skeletons, but even beyond its crystalline nature, it was obviously inhuman. The bones looked hollow, and in the slender skull were not eye-sockets but lenses nested in cone-shaped cavities, giving it the eerie appearance of retained sight.
“Is that a wraith?” Fiora hissed to him as they followed the woman to the stairs. “I didn’t know they had bones at all.”
Cob could only shrug.
Upstairs were more dividers, more desks and benches, more strange displays of bones and remnants of rusted armor and broken crystal, more bare floors set with circles. The woman led them up another set of stairs, then another, until at last they came to the undivided top floor and its domed ceiling. The view stopped both of them on the stairs in awe; nearly the entirety of the dome was an unfurled rose of stained glass, its petals glowing in the morning light.
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 46