The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  “No, I get it,” Cob said. “Not like it’s any different from the west. I never met a skinchanger ‘til I met Arik.”

  “Oh. Really? I thought the west was all dragons in the fields and spirits everywhere.”

  Cob shook his head. “I heard stories about spirits when I was young, and there’s goblins under the cities, but the ‘dragons’ in the grasslands are jus' big lizards. I saw ‘em with the Crimson Army before we got driven off. The real dragons are in the south.”

  “You were in the Army?”

  Cob shrugged stiffly. “I’m an Imperialist, aren’t I?”

  Fiora was silent for a moment. Cob kept his attention ahead, not wanting to see the look on her face—pity, scorn, whatever it might be. He was sick of all that.

  “Well, anyway, that won’t stop happening,” Fiora said finally. “People turning on you, I mean. Maybe they would in the west too, but from what Lark was telling me, there’s a lot of folks there who’re on your side. The Shadow Folk, the Corvish, those goblins… Out here, there’s just us Trifolders—and sad to say, but we have our own traitors. We’ve worked so long within the Empire that maybe we’ve forgotten our task.”

  “Wait. Jus’ you here?” Cob said, frowning. “I thought the Shadow Cult could go anywhere.”

  Fiora shrugged. “Maybe they can, but they dare not. We try to help them, but the Empire hunts them fiercely and the Gold mages know how to keep them out. There are whole cities warded against them. Us Trifolders can’t be warded against because we’re just normal people, but the shadowbloods, they’re…I don’t know. Targetable? Lay-followers like Lark might be overlooked, but the ‘bloods get caught the moment they show up.”

  “And skinchangers?” Cob said, remembering a piece of his flying dream. Haurah the wolf-woman, leading her pack into the Imperial City…

  “I don’t know. They come around sometimes because we’re friendly with the spirits—Athalarr the Lion is courting Brigydde—but most of the time they stay in their own territories. The Forest of Night and the Garnet Mountains and such. It’s not that the mages can keep them out, since from what I hear, they can’t really ‘see’ them magically unless they catch them shifting. They just…don’t like being in cities, I guess.”

  Frowning, Cob said, “But humans learned magic from wraiths, and wraiths can kill spirits. Our mages can’t even see them?”

  “We think it’s one of the studies the Silent Circle banned. I know necromancy was banned a long time ago, and a lot of spirit-knowledge was destroyed when the Heartlands converted to the Imperial Light, so maybe it got lost. That’s a good thing, right?”

  “I guess,” said Cob. “I mean, yeah.”

  She glanced at him sidelong, a wry look on her face, and said, “You don’t much like being the Guardian, do you. I understand that you’re an Imperial, but still.”

  He looked away through the trees, uncomfortable. As much as he still spoke of himself as a faithful Light-follower, he knew in his heart that it was hog-crap. He had gone to the Dark, if only for self-preservation. The memory of the river, of his black urge to see it break its banks and consume the caravan, was an uncomfortable weight in his chest—a concrete reason to fear the Guardian’s power. Not that it would devour him, but that something inside him was all too happy to embrace it. To let the cauldron of bitter rage bubble over in fantastic, catastrophic revenge.

  Morshoc’s face loomed in his mind’s eye, smiling slyly, attended by a ghostly horde of lost friends and blameless victims. It was the only thing that made the rage bearable—knowing that it had a target. A monster to slay.

  “It’s what I’ve gotta do,” he mumbled.

  “And after that?”

  He held his tongue. He did not know what the others would say about his plan, but he had no intention of sharing it with them; Morshoc was too dangerous, too wild to hunt as a group. If the Guardian would stay with him, then they would take down the bastard alone, spirit to spirit.

  “The Mother Matriarch gonna be all right?” he said to distract her.

  Fiora winced. “Well…no. She’s dying.”

  A jolt went through him and he stopped in his tracks. “Wh— How?”

  “It’s not you,” said Fiora, and touched his arm to urge him on. “Maybe the Dark weakened her, but it was just a matter of time. There are some things not even a Brigyddian can heal, and what she suffers is one of them. It’s like…a little monster inside, feeding off her life.”

  “Like an abomination?” Cob said, thinking of the threads he saw beneath Darilan’s skin in their final fight. More of them than he had flesh.

  “More like her body’s turned on her,” said Fiora. “Not the blindness—that's just part of the job. As the goddess of prophecy, Brigydde herself is blind, and when she possesses her priestesses, they become more like her. In demeanor, in sight, sometimes in appearance. Mother Matriarch Aglavyn did a great healing once, which demanded she host the goddess, and that took her eyes.

  “But the weakness, the thinning... We don’t know why it happens, but we can’t stop it. Brigydde’s power strengthens her followers, but that monster is a part of the Mother Matriarch, so any strength she draws serves only to strengthen it too.”

  Cob shuddered. “Guess that’s why Sister Talla was so angry.”

  “They’ve been together a long time, justiciar and priestess.”

  They walked a while in silence, Cob swatting at passing brush and trying not to think about the Mother Matriarch’s wan face, her attempt at a reassuring smile. It hit too close to the heart.

  Finally, Fiora spoke again, her voice strained. “There’s so much I should tell you. But it’s all so awful. Not about the Mother Matriarch, but about the Heartlands. The Empire. I don’t want you to get mad, but it’s the truth.”

  “Out with it, then,” he said. She was right. If he snapped every time someone tried to warn him, eventually they would stop, and he would walk face-first into the enemies’ pikes.

  She tucked a dark curl behind one ear, a nervous gesture, then said, “Well, since Ilshenrir took us south, that means when we leave the forest, we’ll be in the empty lands. Maybe even at the Wrecking Shore. There were cities, towns, villages scattered all throughout Amandon until about forty years ago, when the fire-season got out of control. Some people say it was the Empire’s doing but no one really knows. What matters is that everything from the Wrecking Shore to the Silverton Road burned up.”

  “Is that a lot?”

  “About half of the province.”

  Cob blinked, then blanched. He knew little of the topography or population of the Empire, but he had seen maps before—and Amandon was big. Almost a third of the Heartlands.

  “Did, uh… Did the people escape?” he said, dry-mouthed.

  Fiora looked up at him with pity. “Some. The fires started along the shore, which is why people think they were set. It took a few months for them to burn north to the road, so most of the southern Amands had time to pack up and flee, but a lot wouldn’t, or else they clustered in places they thought would be safe. We had a lot of lakes with a lot of islands and island-towns, and thousands of people took refuge in them, but the fires were too big, too hot. They jumped the water or just plain smoked the islanders to death. It was only because of the Silent Circle that the fires were stopped at the Silverton Road, and even then a lot of mages died holding the ward.

  “After that, southern Amandon was just ashes. Some people tried going back—there are little hamlets out there, eking out a living—but the government never made a push to reestablish roads or rebuild cities, not even to regain control of the coast. It’s just wilderness now. All the Amands who were unhomed either settled in the cities like my parents did in Cantorin or went north to Daecia. And most of those, no one ever heard from again.”

  “What are you sayin’?”

  Fiora shrugged. “I don’t know. No one knows. People take the trek to the Imperial City and never come back. It’s crowded up there, I hear. Everyone elbow-to-elbo
w in the Light of the Palace, such a sea of distractions that it’s easy to get lost, easy to get swept away. We don’t know how they feed them all. We farm all we can from the unburned land but the most fertile valleys were in the south, and now they’re abandoned. Amandon’s always been the Heartlands’ bread-basket, so if we’re on short rations, I can’t imagine what things must be like in Daecia.”

  “But how can you not know?” said Cob, frowning. “There have t’ be merchants, or pilgrims, or someone t’ say what it’s like up there…”

  “Cob. People go up there and don’t come back. That means pilgrims and merchants too.”

  He stared at her sidelong, unsettled. Visions of white towers and verdant gardens, silver streams and robed pilgrims flickered in his head, so pristine, so perfect. So necessary to his peace of mind.

  “But people do come back,” he said. “The Crown Prince is from there. Most of the Army officers’ve been there. Maybe it’s jus’ a better place.”

  “Better than being with your family? Better than telling your family you still exist?”

  “Considerin’ how some people react when they know you’ve gone t’ the Light, doesn’t surprise me.”

  He expected her to holler like his comrades had when they found him out as an Imperialist, but she said softly, “This is the Heartlands. Everyone here but us follows the Light, and not even they know what’s become of their loved ones.”

  “Well…not like we’re goin’ there,” Cob said, trying to feign indifference. “So nothin’ to worry about.”

  “Nothing to—“ Fiora shut her mouth with a click of teeth, took a deep breath then said, “Really? So you’re not planning to slay the Emperor?”

  “Why the pike would I wanna—“

  “Because he’s evil. His minions are murderers, his armies are full of monsters, he vanishes his own people and terrorizes those outside his faith, he enslaves thousands upon thousands and uses them to fight his wars, and you’re the Guardian. You’re supposed to—“

  “What, stop this?” Cob stared down at her and was surprised to see her face just as clenched by anger as his felt. “That’s not my pikin’ job,” he snapped, “and I don’t think the Guardian gives a crap about what humans do t’ each other. The only reason it ever moved against the Imperial City is because that’s where the pikin’ Ravager nests. If I ever go there, it’s not gonna be for the Emperor, it’s gonna be for him.”

  “Then listen to me! It’s not what you want it to be, Cob. It’s one bright, polished trap.”

  He turned his back on her and stalked through the trees, lashing at every passing trunk with the stick. Fury and frustration roiled together within him. He knew she was right—Haurah’s memory of pack disintegration and murder proved it—but he could not accept it. The heart of the Empire could not be as rotten as she said.

  Because if it is—

  He clamped his mind shut against that thought. Behind him came the quick steps of the others trying to keep up with him, and for a moment he had the urge to run as fast as he could, as far as he could. Leave them all behind—them and their questions, their advice, their scathing condemnations. He did not need them. He could do this alone.

  But he squelched it. From the start, he had been aided and guided by others, and he knew he would never have come this far without them. Even now, the future was a mystery, a blank map he could not traverse without help, and as much as it galled him, he needed these comrades. These knowledgeable, skilled backers, no matter how much they might infuriate him.

  “Pike you, Jasper,” he said under his breath. “Pike you for leavin’ me to Morshoc. Now I’m roamin’ blind through this festerin’ mess.”

  “It's not Jasper's fault,” said Fiora behind him. “If he left you, it’s because he had no choice.”

  “What would you know?”

  “He’s the High Justiciar, the Voice of Athalarr, he—“

  Chiming in from further back, Lark said, “I thought the Voice of Athalarr was Gwydren Greymark.”

  Fiora choked, and Cob glanced back to see her red-faced and glaring at Lark as if to shut her up. “Who’s Gwydren Greymark?” he said suspiciously.

  “The Voice of Athalarr,” said Lark, eyeing Fiora. “The Lion’s Price. You never heard that story? He’s an immortal servitor of Athalarr the Lion, infused with spirit-power from when the Lion took over his body to fight one of the nightmare-god’s servitors. Sort of like a lesser, lion-flavored Guardian.”

  “Took over his—“ Cob frowned, recognizing the name ‘Gwydren’ now. That was what Morshoc had supplied as the proper pronunciation for the old folktale Cob had known as ‘Gidrin and the Lion’. “What’s that got t’ do with Jasper?”

  “Nothing,” said Fiora too quickly. Under Cob and Lark's stares, she turned an even deeper crimson and finally ducked her head. “I'm sorry. We're not supposed to tell.”

  Realization coalesced in Cob’s mind, buoying his temper. Trying his best to keep his voice controlled, he said, “So what you’re tellin’ me is that Jasper’s a fake name for some spirit-ridden immortal warrior?”

  “Spirit-ridden and Trifold-serving,” Fiora said resignedly. “He’s the honorary High Justiciar of Brancir and the official messenger between Athalarr and Brigydde.”

  “Who are….courtin’.”

  “Yes.”

  “So he’s…a godly matchmaker, a ‘lesser Guardian’, a pikin’ immortal, and he ran away from Morshoc when I needed him t’ stay?”

  Fiora stared at him, then said, “He’s not allowed to interfere. As a god-servant, anything he gets involved in draws the attention of the other gods. And that’s bad.”

  “How much worse could it be than Morshoc?”

  She held up her hands, wincing, and he realized that all of them were watching him with wide eyes; that his fists were clenched nearly white, his shoulders shaking with tension, his whole frame wired as if to spring. He tried to step back from his anger but it was like moving through mud; the choking thickness of it dragged at him, constantly pushing new memories to the fore. His wounds opening beneath Morshoc’s touch; the panicked horses and soldiers; the corpses at the Riftwatch towers. Fallen Paol.

  The stick snapped in his grip.

  He hissed as pain shot through his hand. Fixing on it, he forced his gaze down from his stunned companions and glared at the splinters now embedded in his palm. Even as he watched, they began pushing out from the skin, the mending itch of the Guardian’s power at work within his flesh despite the wraith-forest around him. It was distraction enough, and he managed to swallow his venom and force the black water back down the well.

  For the moment.

  “Pike them both,” he hissed, and stalked away.

  No footsteps pursued him for quite some time.

  *****

  Dasira stared daggers at Fiora’s back. As educational as that argument had been, she could not help wanting to cut the throat of anyone who conflicted with Cob. Only through an effort of will had she kept her hand from Serindas, from drumming that reflexive tempo on its hilt. Though Cob had paid little attention to her so far, she dared not give any sign of who she had been, either by such telltale motions or by revealing the blade itself.

  Were she still with the Empire, the information about Jasper and Gwydren Greymark would have been invaluable. Both had been a thorn in their side for decades, and knowing that the slippery Justiciar was in fact a cat-cultist made sense. Other Brancirans were painfully straightforward, bludgeoningly forthright—which made them easy to find and kill. Jasper, on the other hand, always seemed to be one step ahead, never standing still long enough to catch.

  It explained why Cob had kept slipping their pursuit in Illane. Not many people had the talent to evade the tracking of an Imperial brand, but cat-cultists could evade anything.

  Now, though, she had no one to tell, nor much desire to. Her loyalty had never belonged to the Empire, only to Prince Kelturin, and he was beyond her reach.

  As for Enkhaelen, it seemed
he already knew.

  She did not know what to think about him setting her up for this role as bodyguard. The stud in her ear plagued her with its presence though it had not once activated. What he wanted from them and what parts they played in his game, she could not guess, but she would drive Serindas through his face if given the chance.

  “Ease up,” said Lark in an undertone. “You look like you’re ready to shank somebody.”

  Dasira gave her a sharp sidelong look, about to say, Are you volunteering? But the girl’s attention was on Fiora a few yards ahead and Cob far beyond, striding angrily through the thinning trees. Arik had vanished a while ago on some mysterious wolfy mission, and at their back drifted Ilshenrir, silent as a ghost.

  “I’m here as a thug,” she muttered. “This is the way my face should look.”

  Lark snorted. “Not that I’ve ever seen you happy, but come on. We’re your comrades now, right? We’re all on the same side. You can relax.”

  You have no idea, she thought. The girl’s dark eyes focused on her inquisitively, so with reluctance she said, “Do you know what I see when I look forward?”

  “No, what?”

  “Two powers that can kill me outright.” She nodded toward Fiora’s back, keeping her voice low enough that Lark had to lean in. “You’ve seen what Trifolder stuff does to me, and that was a bit of blessed gunk wielded by someone outside the faith. Her, that shield and armor—she’s a full Breanan. Not so dangerous as the other two types, but I’ve seen her kind slay mine with one strike. And you saw me in the garrison in Bahlaer.”

  Lark grimaced her understanding. That had been a nasty fight, one of the worst Dasira had ever survived: Shadow cultists on all sides, shadow monsters tearing at her, the very Void gaping open to swallow her. But all the gashes and punctures and near-disembowelments had been sewn up neatly by the threads that filled her. The threads that Trifold power would kill on contact.