The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Read Online Free PDF

forearm like a stripe of charcoal, but—
    Suddenly he remembered another akarriden blade, black-on-black, cutting toward him as he raised his arm in defense.
    He swallowed.  “You, um, remember Erevard from camp?”
    “Fendil's lover, with the scars.  What—“
    “I saw him at Akarridi.”
    Her eyes narrowed to steely slits.  “And?”
    “...And he's one of you now.  Not the bracer people,” he said as she opened her mouth, “a different kind.  Scary teeth, looked like he'd been bleached.  He had one of those black swords, almost cut my arm off but Fiora whacked it away.”
    Dasira's face clenched, then smoothed.  “Glad she was there,” she said tightly.  “The sword was all black?  Runes too?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And he cut you here?”  She tapped the black smudge.
    “Yeah.”
    “This is a problem, Cob.  Black runes mean rotblade.  It decomposes anything it cuts—flesh, wood, stone, metal—and you still have its trace on you.  The Guardian hasn't purged it.”
    A chill ran up his spine.  It had been nine days since the fight by Akarridi.  If the Guardian hadn't managed to mend it in that time...  “Sometimes it itches,” he admitted.
    She glared up at him, then fumbled Serindas awkwardly back into its sheath and took his forearm in both hands.  “No way am I stabbing you now,” she said, pressing at the line with her thumbs as if trying to split it apart.  “Flesh is sealed, no scar, and it doesn't hurt when I do this?”
    “Well, now you're diggin' your nails in...”
    “Sorry.  By all rights, your arm should have fallen off days ago, but...”
    “So it's fine then,” he said with forced certainty, trying to pry himself from her grip.  “Guardian'll get rid of it eventually, nothin' to worry about.”
    “Maybe.  What about Erevard?  Did he say anything?”
    Cob remembered the look on Erevard's face: pure murderous hatred.  He shook his head.  “No, but he didn't have to.  He knew me, I knew him.  He wants me dead.”
    “Then he'll be coming.”  Dasira tapped the mark.  “The rotblade left a piece of its essence in you.  It will be able to track you.  And when he arrives...”
    She trailed off questioningly, watching him.  He looked away.  Whether she was asking if he would give her up as Fendil's true killer or if he would kill Erevard, he didn't know, but he couldn't answer either.  Their fates were his fault.
    “We'll jus' have to keep an eye out,” he said.
    Dasira's mouth compressed slightly, then opened.
    Before she could speak, a sound of rushing footsteps came from the cave above.
    They both looked over to see Lark striding out, face clenched with misery, an orange robe slung over her shoulder and Fiora and Ilshenrir close at her heels.  Cob glanced past them but saw no angry horde of wolves, and the ones that lounged at the cave mouth seemed indifferent.  Shaking Dasira's hands off, he rose and said, “What's wrong?”
    Lark halted a few paces away, chest heaving as she tried to gather words.  Her dark eyes glimmered in the fading light, and the way her lips trembled made him want to hurt whoever caused it.  At her side, Fiora looked grim and unusually pale.
    When the Shadow girl tried and failed to speak, only managing a weak choking noise, the Trifolder supplied quietly, “Bahlaer.  The Crimsons destroyed its Shadowland.  Dropped some of it into the goblin caverns.”
    In his memory, Cob saw domes glowing in the dark: his one glimpse into that deep place where civilized goblins like Rian dwelt untroubled by the sunlit realm.  He saw the tavern and the dark-touched faces, some curious, some hostile.  And he saw Lark herself, in the tunnels after the massacre in the tavern, screaming at him about her friends.
    “Pikes.  I'm sorry,” he said, stepping closer, and though she recoiled from his first touch on her shoulder, at the second she flung herself against him and buried her face into his chest, sobbing wretchedly.
    He hugged her tight