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

  Ahead of him, Ammala shivered. “And what do you sacrifice?”

  “Everythin’ that keeps you apart from the Light. Everythin’ that casts a shadow.” He swallowed, trying not to think about the ones he had already cut away from himself. The faces that floated up to accuse him whenever he closed his eyes. He was doing this for them, after all. To be rid of them, to avenge them upon himself. This was how it had to be. “The Light demands trust. Absolute trust. To join with it is to let go of everythin’ else. Bonds, family, life…”

  —her smile so sad yet placid, her eyes so empty—

  He shook his head vigorously, not wanting to remember. The first sacrifice. It still hurt—it had never stopped hurting. Even when they told him that she had done it to herself and that he should be relieved to be unshackled from her corrupting shadow, he had not felt free, and he could not feel cleansed. Always it was there in the back of his mind, unshakable.

  He must have made some sort of noise, because Ammala turned suddenly, fire in her eyes, only to soften the moment she saw his face. “Cob?” she murmured, and her expression said What’s wrong, child? even though her words did not.

  Looking down at her, so different in features yet so much the same, felt like a nail in his heart. He glanced away to the cottage that rose like a ship from a bleached sea. Insulated from harm, a world in itself.

  “Tell me what to do,” he said quietly.

  She stared up at him, brows creased, then sighed. “Go home. Flee to Kerrindryr. Surely your people will—“ But she must have seen the change in his face on the second word, the way it twisted his gut, because she stopped and gave him a stern look. “You would rather throw yourself on an altar than return to your homeland?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you have taken shelter with me. You have no desire to die.”

  He said nothing. It was all a knot, an awful useless tangle, and as much as he wanted to cut it from his chest, he did not know how.

  “Then…” She flapped a hand as if trying to gather some memory. “Then go on the pilgrimage of Light if you must. Isn’t that why they do it? My son Paol tells me-- Close your mouth, dear.”

  He obeyed with a click of teeth, but the surprise did not fade. The Pilgrimage of Light. It was the goal of every Light-worshiper: to surmount the Rift, travel the whole eastward length of the Empire, attain entry to Daecia City and perhaps even be permitted into the Imperial Palace--the very center of the faith. To kneel before the Living Throne and be cleansed of all shadows, all suffering, all sorrow.

  Cob swallowed, trying to control his growing excitement. He wanted that with a passion. In his woeful flight, it had never occurred to him that he had any option but the Army or exile--certainly not one as glorious as the pilgrimage. He remembered the stories from the priest in the quarry, of the white boulevards and shining towers, the bells and altars, the eternal summer foliage, and the gentle warmth of the Light’s embrace…

  And if he knelt before the Throne and was found wanting, he would be blasted to ashes, as was right.

  “I…. Yes,” he said roughly. “D’you think I can go?”

  “You’d need papers, dear. Or to use the smugglers’ paths. There are forgers in the city but they charge heavy silver, and an Imperial registrar would only have you arrested. Beside that, there will be snow on the Rift soon, if there isn’t already.”

  “I’m not afraid of snow.”

  “Can you walk all winter? Without papers, that’s what you’ll be doing.”

  He shrugged, the buckets swinging slowly with the motion, and looked past her to the Rift. There would be no smugglers’ paths this close to the Mist Forest; from listening to Fendil and Erevard, he knew that most Rift traffic, legal and illegal, occurred in a single heavily-patrolled spot in the north called the Rift Climb. There were ways to circumvent the Rift, but those involved daring the ogrish tundra or putting to sea south of Kanrodi. Neither of those was practical.

  “You should go into Bahlaer,” Ammala said finally. “It has an Imperial garrison but our people do the policing, and you can shelter with the Shadow Folk. They might—“

  “I won’t have anythin’ to do wi’ the Dark.”

  She gave him a look, then sighed. “As you will. You know your friends from your enemies, I’m sure.”

  “I do,” Cob said stiffly. Then, after a moment under her flat gaze, he said, “Um. But thank you. I don’t know that I’m worthy of the pilgrimage, but…that’s why we take it. To find out.”

  Ammala just arched a brow at him, then headed for the cottage. He followed a few steps behind but could not keep his eyes from the Rift. New possibilities tumbled through his head in a dizzying array.

  Perhaps he still had a right to hope.

  *****

  In a room the size of Ammala’s cottage, in a compound two days’ ride south, two men were engaged in what could only loosely be called a discussion.

  “Put that down, Enkhaelen,” said Crown Prince Kelturin Aradysson for the fifth time. He was a handsome man, older than he looked: tawny and leonine, almost idealized, with the physique of a swordsman and the stern stare of a natural commander. Right now his face was tense, voice exasperated despite the lounging pose he maintained in his camp chair. A golden pendant in the shape of a teardrop gleamed beneath the open collar of his nightshirt.

  At the shelves that bore the Crown Prince’s campaign trophies, Inquisitor Archmagus Shaidaxi Enkhaelen ignored him. Enkhaelen was the polar opposite of the Prince—slight and pale and sharp-featured, with unruly black hair that fell to his black-robed shoulders. Despite impeccable tailoring, his robes seemed a size too large, as if he was a boy dressed up in his father’s clothes or a man who thought himself bigger than he was. The lightning-split silver circle on his black cloak proclaimed him to be a magus of Energies; he was in fact the Archmagus in charge of that chair for the Council of Valent, the ruling body of the Silent Circle. He consulted for all three army groups, ran the Inquisition as the Emperor’s left hand despite not being a mentalist, and had trained the Crown Prince personally. He was known to be energetic, inventive and quite amoral.

  And, sometimes, incredibly irritating.

  Right now, he was toying with the wavy ceremonial dagger that Kelturin had claimed from a dragon-priestess during the first assault on the southlands. So far that battle had been their only southern victory; the serpent-sorcerers kept Kanrodi heavily warded, and there were no Imperial sympathizers within—the Empire’s most potent city-cracking tool—so the siege might well be endless. Should the Crimson Army circumvent the city to strike for easier prey, Kanrodi would strike as well, and thus they were stuck.

  “Can we perhaps return to business?” Kelturin said, gritting his teeth at the repetitive sheathe and unsheathe of the blade.

  “I suppose,” said the Archmagus. He set the dagger down and picked up a crystalline skull—human-sized but oddly dentitioned, oddly shaped. A wraith skull from one of the few wraith corpses they had managed to claim after the furious fights along the forest-line.

  “If you would stop playing with things and just turn around like a normal, respectful—“

  “Ah, there’s your problem. You want me to be respectful.”

  “Just put the skull down, Enkhaelen.”

  “Master Enkhaelen.”

  “I am not calling you—“

  “Well, if you won’t be respectful, I don’t see how you can expect it from me.”

  Kelturin sighed and set his head in his hands, elbows on the drifts of reports that covered his trestle-table desk. He had already dismissed his officers; it was one thing for Enkhaelen to cause his usual scene, completely another when it was in front of Kelturin’s men. Only one remained, standing stone-faced and parade-stiff in front of the warded door, and that one would not gossip.

  “Fine,” said Kelturin, because it was better than pulling his hair out and easier than trying to beat some humility into the horrible mage. That had never worked. “Master Enkhaelen. Would you
please put the skull down, pick up nothing else, and turn around so we can have a proper conversation?”

  The Archmagus held up the skull as if considering it, then set it on the shelf and turned with a smile. His face was narrow, his nose hooked like a vulture’s beak; a scar cut through his right eyebrow, pulling it into a constant sardonic quirk. Beneath those brows, his eyes were flat and cold, like a rime of ice over shallow water.

  “Go on then,” he said. “I’m pretending to listen.”

  Kelturin knew it was the best he would get. He picked up the top report and sat back, gesturing with the parchments. “The fugitive. The vessel. It's been nine-- No, ten days since he escaped, Enkhaelen. You told me you’d traced him.”

  “Vaguely,” said the Archmagus, smile unwavering. “It’s no use tracking him by the brand--not from a distance. Too much interference from the possessing spirit. But I have my ways, and since you asked so nicely…”

  He trailed off expectantly. Kelturin gave him a flat look. The one person he wanted to wring for information, and he was not allowed. The Archmagus outranked him. It chafed to be just seventh in his father’s hierarchy.

  “Please enlighten me, Master Enkhaelen,” he said with no inflection.

  The Archmagus beamed at him as if he was a dog that had learned a trick. “He’s south of Bahlaer. Not far—a few marks’ ride. And he’s standing still. Gone to ground with the locals, perhaps. I can’t pinpoint any more precisely.”

  “Not in the wraith forest?”

  “I couldn’t trace him if he was in the wraith forest, now could I?”

  Kelturin snorted. He doubted any claim of inability from the Archmagus; Enkhaelen had stonewalled him too often out of simple, gleeful spite. But as much as he hated relying on him, this time it was necessary. No one outside this room could know the truth, and though Enkhaelen had the Emperor’s ear, he was too capricious to give up the game right at its start.

  And it was a game to him. Kelturin had no doubt of that.

  “Then you will go to the area to seek him further.”

  “No.”

  “Enkhaelen—“

  The Archmagus gestured dismissively. “I have other duties, Kel. And my own projects, which, as you should know, the Emperor considers a priority. I can’t be running around looking for your little fugitive. It’s not my fault he escaped.”

  Peripherally, Kelturin saw the third, silent member of their discussion stiffen. He sighed. “No, but you still have a stake in this. You’re the one who started it. I don’t understand why you refuse to assist in what is essentially one of your projects.”

  “I handed it over to you and Trevere. Is it my fault that you’ve fumbled it? Shall I clean your room too?”

  “Don’t go in there,” Kelturin growled as the Archmagus turned toward the curtain that blocked off his bedchamber.

  “Why, is one of your lady-friends still in attendance? You know I’d have to kill her.”

  “I dismissed her with the rest of the officers. Please stop meddling with my property.”

  “Of course,” said the Archmagus. “Then I shall just excuse myself. You obviously do not need my aid in recovering your slave.”

  Kelturin’s face twisted. Again the slave issue. He hated keeping them. By and large they were criminals, though petty, and served out of a mixture of fear and the mind-control efforts of the Army’s mentalists. He tried to treat them like men, tried to find reliable ones to promote to freesoldier, but it was difficult. There were so many now that he had enforced full conscription, with such an array of crimes.

  And he needed them. No one would send him reinforcements, for the Emperor had commanded that he stand or fall on his own merits. Even when success was impossible.

  “Obviously I do need your help,” he said through his teeth. “My scryers can’t find him. You set the spirit-trap in him; you’re the only one with that kind of a link. Enkhaelen— Master Enkhaelen, you know what my father will do if he finds out that we had the Guardian but lost it.”

  Enkhaelen turned cool eyes on him, smiling in his predatory way. “But why should I care?”

  Because you serve the Empire and its designs. Because the capture of this fugitive is essential to the welfare of the realm. Because they will take my army from me.

  Because you’ve been like an uncle to me all my life.

  Kelturin said none of that. It would make no impact. Up and down the chain of command, everyone knew that Enkhaelen served the Emperor for one reason only: the freedom to pursue his ‘projects’ no matter the cost in gold or lives. A discarded project meant as little to him as loyalty or sentiment.

  “Because my father will know you were involved,” he said instead. “And I will tell him you refused to help. He’ll take away your toys.”

  The Archmagus’ eyes narrowed, and the temperature of the room dropped precipitously. Wards on the walls and door sparked to life in response to the perceived assault. Enkhaelen ignored them; his gaze was fixed on Kelturin, who refused to look away even as the sudden cold stung him through his nightshirt.

  “I do not take kindly to threats,” said the Archmagus.

  “Of course you don’t. But now I have your attention.” Kelturin held up the parchment he had selected earlier, with its army insignia and his own royal seal. “I've authorized a Hunter writ for Trevere. He now has the authority to go anywhere and commandeer anything in my territory--military, militia, mage, or civilian. By now, they should all know the consequences of refusing a Crimson Hunter. He will pursue and capture the fugitive with your assistance.”

  “No. As nostalgic as that little Palace reunion would be, I have better uses for my time. Send him out on his own, you’ll have no aid from me.”

  That was it. Kelturin smacked his hands on the table and rose from his seat. “You brought me into this, you utter bastard. You can’t just leave it in my lap like—“

  “Don’t pretend it’s my fault. I know quite well that you’ve had warning.“

  “Warning? Of course I’ve had warning! But you said to just observe or we’d spook it! You were supposed to come and claim it!”

  “And you were supposed to—“

  “Sirs? Sirs.”

  As one, they shot a look to the third man. It would have combusted a less hardy soul, but Scout Darilan Trevere only narrowed his eyes. His one sign of nerves was the tap of gloved fingers on the hilts of his long daggers.

  No soldier would dare interrupt the Crown Prince and the Inquisitor Archmagus, but Trevere was not a simple soldier. He was the Crown Prince’s most trusted assassin.

  “It no longer matters what we were supposed to do,” Trevere said flatly. “What matters now is carrying out the mission. I will go alone if necessary.”

  “No. Absolutely not,” Kelturin said, mastering his temper with an effort of will. On the other side of the camp desk, Enkhaelen crossed his arms and lifted his chin in arrogant obstinance. “I have already selected a team to go with you. The issue is our lack of arcane support. We have more mages recuperating than we have fit for the field, and I need every one of them to hold the siege-line around Kanrodi. Enkhaelen, if you won’t go yourself, lend me some of your Inquisitors. General Lynned keeps blocking my requisitions to the Silent Circle.”

  “No.”

  “’No’? Are you a child? You know how important this is!”

  “And so my work should suffer because you let him slip through your fingers? You have at least one mage not on the siege-line—Voorkei, that emissary from Gejara. Send him, and one or two of your recuperating mages. A pursuit is an easier burden than a city-wide ward.”

  “Are you trying to sabotage me?”

  The Inquisitor Archmagus laughed, lightly and insincerely. “Of course not. Recuperating mages will be no worse against the Guardian than any other.”

  Kelturin opened his mouth, but the Archmagus turned away, waving a gloved hand as he headed for the door. “I have an Inquisition to run, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” Not waiting for an a
nswer, he pulled the door open with a crackle of unsealing wards and strode out into the lightening morning.

  Exhaling heavily, Kelturin looked to Trevere. The assassin’s fingers ceased their tapping, and he straightened to parade-stiff.

  Kelturin grimaced. The two were long familiar with one another. Darilan had been stationed at the Palace for most of Kelturin’s youth, in various roles from harem guard to weapons trainer, and had taught him much. They had once been close. Duty had separated them recently, though, and Kelturin could no longer read his friend’s expression.

  And now there was this matter.

  He did not want to doubt Darilan’s story—that he had gone to speak to Cob at the gate but that Cob had behaved strangely, finally attacking him and the other slave before running off—but there were problems. Darilan had been the slave’s keeper for the past five years, assigned to make sure that he remained docile and trusting and too heavily dosed to misbehave, but while that seemed an easy job for an Imperial assassin, Darilan had failed. And he never failed.

  There were other irregularities, like the sudden assignment of the slave’s company to night-watch and the subsequent disappearance of the assigning officer. Kelturin wanted to write that off as cultist manipulation; it was an open secret that the Shadow Cult had agents among his men, and if they had learned that the slave might be hosting a Dark spirit, they would certainly try to set him free.

  But there would have been no murder, no ruckus. The cult was a thorn in his side but he appreciated their bloodless methods. This was someone else’s doing.

  And as Cob’s keeper, Darilan was the only one who could bring him back.

  “The Hunter writ,” Kelturin said, holding out the parchment. It was one of the most powerful documents in a General's arsenal, designating the bearer as a proxy of the General himself. Once, he would have given it over without qualm, but now it was not so easy.

  Darilan broke stance and stepped forward to take it, the etched black bracer peeking out from under his black sleeve. He looked over the page, examined the ensorcelled wax seal at the bottom, then scrolled it up neatly and bowed his head to his commander.