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

spoken.  The Guardian seemed to automatically translate.  “ We bring to you representatives of the Gnashed Tusk tribe, and of the Shadewalker tribe, to join in war council for your cause. ”
    Cob nodded slowly.  Though the wolves had offered simple hospitality, it was clear that they were as interested in his business as he was in the details of the 'firebird'—as they called Enkhaelen.  He didn't want a war, but he wasn't surprised that they did, considering how badly the Empire treated the people at its fringes.
    “I welcome them,” he said, figuring he should be polite.  Then, with a mental prod for the Guardian, he said it again, hoping the spirit would translate it into wolf-speech.  What came from his mouth was a collection of growls and yips, startling despite his expectation.
    Several of the man-shaped wolves huffed in amusement, and he flushed, wondering if he had misspoken.  The lead wolf inclined her head, though, and the big hog-folk grunted acknowledgment.  “ We will bring them to a place for their camp ,” the wolf said, and nudged her steed lightly, turning the whole group toward the thinner woods to the south.
    Cob exhaled through his teeth as he watched them go.  A few of the hog-folk dragged sledges full of rolled leather and lumpy cloth—tent material perhaps—and the necessities of camp.  The cat-man had nothing but a satchel and a few strings of teeth.  His long tail flicked liquidly as he followed the others, unencumbered by even a stitch of clothing.
    “Pike me,” murmured Lark, her tone an amazed counterpoint to his apprehension.  He glanced back to find her staring after them with an odd half-smile.
    “So I guess we're havin' a war council,” he told his friends, and saw their faces change.  None looked happy.  Not Ilshenrir, still wearing his scars; not Dasira, nearly broken; not Arik, with ears laid back as he watched the other skinchangers pass.  Not Lark, despite her intrigue.  Not even Fiora, who wanted the Empire to burn.
    “But that's not what we're after,” she said, looking up to him for confirmation.  “We know what happens to armies that assault the Palace.”
    “I guess they don't.  We'll—I'll have to explain that.  If the rest of you wanna sit it out...”  He turned to Ilshenrir.  “Maybe you could take Dasira and go into the Grey?  If they've been after you all night, and they know what she is, I can't say that you'll be safe at a gathering.  And I can't leave you in a cave.”
    “Or up a tree,” said Lark wryly.  “Maybe we should all wait for you in the Grey.  I'd love to eavesdrop on this, but it's not really our place, is it?”
    Ilshenrir nodded his acceptance, but Dasira said, “Bad idea.”  Her voice was low and rough, unsteady, as if it took effort to piece the words together, but her eyes were pale knives beneath the fur hood.  “You need me out here.  I worked for him.  My knowledge...  I can't give it from the Grey.”
    “Nor mine, I suppose,” said Ilshenrir faintly.  “Skinchangers do not use magic.  They will have no perspective on our enemy except as a spirit vessel.  You should make no decision without considering him as a whole: Ravager, necromancer, servant of Empire.”
    Cob grimaced, imagining the wolves piling onto Ilshenrir in the middle of the council, or a hog-man rushing Dasira with one of those massive clubs.  But they were right; he couldn't just tuck them out of the way when they were inconvenient.  If that meant getting into a fight...
    Not like I haven't done dumber things.
    “All right, fine,” he said.  “But mind your tongues, yeah?  No startin' trouble.”
    “Guardian, our very existences—“
    “I know, I know.  Jus'...  Please.  Be polite.”
    Ilshenrir nodded, and Cob glared at Dasira until she did too.
    “If we're staying,” said Fiora, “maybe we should figure out what not to say.  Until now, the only skinchangers I've ever met were Arik and Sogan, and they don't