“You don’t mind that they’re necromancers?” said Fiora. Lark gave her a ‘my turn to talk’ look, but the Trifolder girl did not notice; she was focused on Vriene, expression serious.
Vriene shook her head slightly. “They have given us no reason to fear. No bones have gone missing from our graveyards, no lost souls walk the night. If they follow that dread path, they do so only amongst themselves, and there is nothing that I can say or do to change that.”
“But what about people who go in there?”
“Those who enter have returned unharmed. I have been given no reason to consider the Haarakash a danger to us.”
“But aren’t necromancers—“
“Um, Fiora, we’re here because we need the necromancers’ help. Not to fight with them,” said Lark, eyeing the Trifolder girl. Fiora made a face and sat back in her chair.
“It is wise to be cautious,” said Vriene, passing another dish to her husband, “but yes, perhaps you should not speculate and instead observe them while you visit. The townsfolk gossip about them too much; their proximity makes most believe that everything that goes wrong is because of them. But as I said, they come over rarely. They are to blame neither for the common strangeness of life nor for the rumors spun around them.”
“Well, what about the necromancer who tied the spirit into Cob?” said Fiora. “Maybe he’s some kind of escapee from Haaraka.”
“He’s not,” said Dasira flatly.
Lark eyed her. It was the first time she had spoken since they had entered town.
“How do you know?” said Fiora, leaning forward to point with her teacup. Dasira gave her a bland sidelong look. “I mean, necromancy was supposed to be exterminated from the North, except for in Haaraka. Where else could it have come from?”
“The Ravager.”
“But the Ravager’s a nature spirit, and necromancy isn’t natural.”
“No magic is natural,” said Vriene mildly. “All of the arcane arts were taught to us by wraithkind, in an attempt to distance us from the spirits and diminish their power. Do you not remember your Trifold history, young Breanan?”
Fiora frowned. “I don’t remember anything about necromancy.”
With a sigh, Vriene withdrew the last of the flatware, and Sogan hefted the basin and carried it into the washroom. As she dried the knives and spoons, Vriene said, “Necromancy is an arcane art twisted to a foul purpose, but it springs from the same source. Brigydde herself was taught the art of prophecy while she was mortal, by a wraith who would eventually be devoured by the Ravager—we think perhaps to absorb its knowledge, for it is said that this is how the Ravager learns magic.”
Lark grimaced. “By eating people? That’s horrible.”
“The Ravager is the spirit of predators. That is how it works.”
“But it’s not supposed to prey on the Guardian,” said Fiora. “That’s the problem—they shouldn’t fight like this. So it’s Morshoc’s fault, whoever he is.”
“Not our business,” said Lark. “We’re here to get Cob free of the Guardian. After that, the Guardian can do whatever it wants.”
“Do you really think Cob’s gonna let the Guardian go fight the Ravager without him?”
Lark glanced to Dasira, who gave no sign of caring. “When he came to me, all he wanted was to be free,” she said, turning back to Fiora. “Maybe things have changed, but I don’t think he wants what the Guardian wants. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so determined to get rid of it. We have enough trouble with the Golds; we don’t need to go courting more by plotting how to mess with the Ravager.”
“But it lives in the Imperial City. With the Emperor.”
“So what?”
“So—“ Fiora sighed heavily. “So it’s a Great Spirit that can do necromancy, and it’s teamed up with the false god who’s had his boot on the necks of both our faiths for decades. Who knows how long they’ve been working together? How much they know? Cob already said that the Ravager has been tinkering with the Seals, so if they’re planning something terrible and we have the Guardian’s strength behind us—a power equal to the Ravager once its chains are broken—“
“What are you saying?” said Lark. “You want to start a war?”
“I’m saying the Guardian could make a difference. We could make a difference, if Cob just takes the fight to Morshoc.”
Lark opened her mouth to argue, but paused as Vriene pulled out the chair opposite them and settled in, folding her hands on the tabletop. “There have been many armies led against the Imperial City,” said the Mother Matriarch, “from the Heartlands and from the north, but all have failed—swallowed by the swamps to a man. It seems to happen every decade or so. We Trifolders once entertained the idea of marching on the Palace, but our agents who went there never returned, and thus the thought of war has long been shelved. The Breanans are fiery, bold; naturally they wish for a bold solution to our problem, but fighting the Empire and its minions, or trying to assault the Ravager within the walls of the Imperial City, is the height of foolishness.”
“We didn’t have the Guardian before,” said Fiora. “It can protect us. We saw how it tore into the Golds before the haelhene got it—and that’s with it still bound. If the Haarakash necromancers can break Cob’s bonds, he can protect us from anything the Imperial Light throws at us. Then we gather our forces and—“
“Our forces?” Vriene said coolly. “Our forgers and trainees and laywomen and healers? Or do you mean our sons and husbands in the Imperial Armies? Shall we call upon them to desert their posts and gather in secret, march in secret up the long road to the Imperial City? We have no army, Fiora, and that is how it is meant to be. We guide the extant armies away from cruelty, away from oppression, slowly turning their boot from our necks, as you put it. We are not meant to rise up in force.”
“That’s why we’ll never get out of this mire!”
“Um,” said Lark, starting to wish she had never sparked this conversation, “we don’t know if Cob will stay with the Guardian or not. So what say we wait for him to wake up?”
Fiora rounded on her, scowling. “We can’t just wait for him to decide. We have to give him a reason to agree with us. A good plan, one we all agree with. He has the Guardian but he’s not really a leader; he doesn’t know where he’s going. If we can guide him—“
“Shut your hole already,” Dasira snapped. “You’re sure as shit not the leader and no one’s interested in your warmongering. As for ‘guiding’ him, don’t try it or else I’ll be guiding my fist into your face.”
Fiora stared at her, taken aback, and Lark smothered an inappropriate laugh. She was used to bickering—it was unavoidable among the Shadow Folk—but from her comrades’ expressions, she knew that this argument had gone past its usefulness. Across the table, Vriene appeared unruffled, her gaze moving from face to face, but Sogan had returned from dumping the washbasin and stood now at her shoulder, arms crossed, face like stone.
“I believe Lark had a point,” said Vriene into the viperous silence. “Cob is the vessel. The choice is his, and it is not a choice he should make before he is recovered. As for thoughts of war, please discard them. We will not resolve our problems with the Empire by assaulting it.”
“That’s what you Brigyddians always say,” Fiora muttered.
Vriene sighed. “It is our duty to heal, to protect, to provide sanctuary. War is the antithesis of all we stand for. I understand your anger—“
“How can you?” said Fiora sharply. She gestured around the kitchen. “You have a home aboveground. A husband, a family, a place you’ve been able to live for twenty-three years. Turo is protected like nowhere else. My father was drafted when I was thirteen even though my sister and I had no other family. We had to give up everything and go into hiding so we wouldn’t be taken as camp followers. My father died in Corvia because the Empire can’t stop waging its stupid little wars, so why can’t we have a righteous one to end them? Why can’t we rise up and say ‘no more’?”
&
nbsp; Her voice had gone to water by the end, and Lark winced in sympathy as Fiora sat back, arms crossed tight over her chest, lower lip trembling as she tried to hold Vriene’s gaze. Even Dasira looked thoughtful.
No, measuring, Lark decided, watching the bodythief from the corner of her eye. Like she’s trying to gauge how hard Fiora’d be to kill.
Didn’t think it was possible, but she’s even meaner as a woman.
“Fiora,” said Vriene calmly, “I sympathize with your loss, but do not think that you are the only one who grieves. Once, I had three sons in the Gold Army, but Malin is dead and I hear from Dorin and Evin too little for my peace of mind. We have all been hurt by the Emperor’s endless wars. That does not mean that we should brew more, no matter the good we think they will do. No war is righteous, and no violent fantasy will end in the way we desire.”
“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” murmured Dasira.
Watching Fiora’s face, Lark saw anger cross it, then sullenness, then defeat. Her shoulders sank, her hands fisted under her elbows then relaxed, and she lowered her stubborn jaw and shook her head. “I don’t agree. We can’t just wait and try to….to massage the Empire into tractability.”
“Isn’t that what you were planning to do with Cob?” said Dasira dryly.
“I wasn’t—“
“Let’s not argue, all right?” said Lark. “Look, we all have our grudges against the Empire, otherwise we wouldn’t be helping the Guardian. They took over my city and attacked my kai, they enslaved Cob, and I’m sure they’ve done bad things to Das and Arik too. So we’re all on the same side. What we do depends on Cob, and until then, we should just enjoy some peace and quiet.”
“What’d they do to you?” said Fiora, pointing her cup at Dasira.
The bodythief looked at the cup as if considering breaking Fiora’s teeth with it, and Lark tensed, but after a long moment she said, “Took my child.”
Cob? Lark almost said, but stopped herself. The Trifolders would consider that weird and Dasira would probably mangle her for it—and by the mask-like expression on Dasira’s face, she was thinking of someone else.
The idea of Dasira having an actual child unnerved her, but not as much as the other questions it inevitably raised. Were you the mother or the father? Was it a monster baby? What happened to it?
There was no way she could ask. Mangling would be too good for her if she did.
“I’m sorry,” said Fiora, and she seemed sincere. “You never wanted revenge?”
“I’m getting it now.”
“Fair enough.”
"And you? Is this for revenge?" said Dasira. "This Trifolder thing you're doing."
"It's not a 'thing'," said Fiora, "it's a faith."
"The Mother Matriarch seems to think you're wrong."
Vriene held up a hand to forestall Fiora. Turning a mild gaze to Dasira, she said, "The three branches of the Trifold do not agree in all things, and from temple to temple there can be differences in opinion and doctrine. I expect that Fiora's views are considered appropriate among her Cantorin sisters, even though as the Turonan Mother Matriarch I find them troubling. While we all serve the same goddesses, they do not dictate our every act, nor do they require unanimity of thought. My duty as a Brigyddian is to tend the youthful fires of the Breanans and the smouldering coals of the Brancirans, to see that they neither flare out of control nor cool and die. Fiora is passionate, and I respect that, but I can not allow passion to overrule sense."
It was hard to read the look that Dasira gave Vriene. Lark wanted to call it grudging agreement, but there might have been ire in it, or dark amusement. It troubled her how little she knew about the bodythief, yet how much they relied on her.
All she could tell herself was that if Dasira wanted them dead, she could have done it at any time.
"So how did you end up in the Shadow Faith?" said Fiora, staring at Dasira. "Or should I say 'that Shadow thing you're doing'? I told you mine."
"Is this a contest now?"
"No, but you're quiet. I wonder about you."
"I'll tell you mine," said Lark quickly. "It's kind of a tale."
The others turned to her, and she tried to smile casually. She hated talking about it, but Dasira had a dangerous gleam in her eyes and she knew she had to head it off before the bodythief said or did something bad. Dasira arched a brow, then shrugged and reached for her as-yet untouched cup of tea, and Fiora huffed but nodded. Across the table, Vriene touched Sogan's arm and he gave her a questioning look, then pulled out the fifth seat to settle beside her, sliding his arm around her back comfortably. Their silent communication bit at her heart.
"All right. Keep in mind, it's a bit sordid," said Lark, wishing she could magically back out of this. "My family—ah, my birth-family, not the Kheri—come from one of the territories of Zhangi-Uru, way down south past Padras and everything. I've never been there, and probably you easterners have no idea where it is.
"What I do know is that we were displaced before I was born. We were farmers—everyone up here thinks that all the land past Padras is some huge blasted desert but there's more to it than that, there's all sorts of terrain and people and cities, great verdant areas, marshes, everything. The problem is that some of those people are hostile, and while there are always small border conflicts going on, when something disastrous happens like great storms or volcanic eruptions, suddenly there are lizard-faced men pouring out of the forests trying to sacrifice everyone to the angry weather spirits. My grandmother told me that's the reason the ogres came north in the first place, since they originated in Zhangi-Uru and there are huge populations of them still there. To get away from the stupid lizard-people.
"Of course, I guess the Guardian would say that the ogres came north to crush the wraiths, but either way.
"Anyhow, I was born and raised in Fellen near the Illane-Padras border, and so was my father, but my mother's family came north a bit later than his. There's a large Zhangish diaspora community in Fellen and a bit in Bahlaer, and most families stay inside it—living, trading, marrying. It's a comfortable life, I suppose, but very restricted, especially if your family is traditionalist.
"My mother—very traditional.
"I should probably mention that Lark isn't actually my name. It's Setara. I took a Shadow name when I split for the Kheri because that's what you do if you don't want your people to find you, or don't want your enemies to find them. But I was the eldest daughter of three, plus my little brother, so since my father worked and my mother was afraid of the northerners, I was always the one doing errands in the non-Zhangish parts of town. I liked it better out there. Don't know why. Maybe because there wasn't always someone telling me to stand up straighter, walk like so, give the men this kind of look because it's how you catch a husband. Mother didn't like that I wanted to do things with my life, not be slobbered on by some man then get trapped in a house with babies.
"Now, my father worked hard but he was quiet. Mother ruled the house. And I suppose where she came from was richer than where we ended up, because she was always harrying him about how we needed more income, better things. We'd never be Illanites but we could make them jealous with all our finery. And finally I suppose she was tired of waiting for me to hunt down a nice rich man of my own, so she matchmade me.
"To her brother. My uncle."
She saw Fiora's mouth pop open and hoped nothing was about to come out. This was the part of the story she hated the most—not because of the events but for the look on people's faces, the bafflement and pity. It angered her that in people's eyes she became a victim the moment she spoke those words.
But Fiora said nothing, so she went on.
"I'll make this quick. He was fairly wealthy and I suppose my mother wanted to keep it in the family, but I thought he was disgusting and I often told him so. One day he was visiting and came up behind me while I had a pan on the stove. Touched me. So I threw the contents of the pan in his face.
"And I ran. I was fifteen,
old enough for a life on my own. Knew I couldn't go back to my family. I left Fellen and tried to disappear into Bahlaer, but the Zhangish community there was the same kind that I'd fled—determined to be separate from the world around them. So I took to the streets, started filching things, you know...the way all new Shadow Folk start, probably. Found my way into the tunnels and got stuck in one of them during a piking Riftquake. That's when I found Rian."
She looked to Dasira, the only one who would know who she was talking about. The bodythief nodded slightly, face once again fixed in a mask, but Lark had the sense that there was no annoyance behind it for once. "Rian's a goblin—he was just a newt at the time," she said, trying not to remember his tiny body in her arms, his little mewls. If she thought about it—
A knot formed in her chest.
"I saved him," she said, no longer seeing the others. "He was so small but he nearly bit my finger off while I was digging him out, scared little guy. I never liked children but goblin newts aren't like that, they're never really babies, so even though he was injured he could understand me pretty well. I couldn't find the way out of the tunnels so we huddled up for a while, and finally the eiyets found us and brought the Kheri. They got us stitched up and all, and after that I fell in with them. It was nice to be around people who didn't care who or what you were, as long as you were on their side."
“Were?” said Fiora.
Lark blinked, shaking away the memories. For a moment she missed Rian so much she could not speak, but she managed to swallow the lump along with a sip of tea. No one else spoke. “I’m still with the Kheri of course,” she said finally. “But I suppose it’s not as comfortable as it used to be. I was in a good position for a while, aiding my kai leader, but then—heh, then I ended up with Cob and all kinds of trouble, and now here I am. On a mission, so to speak.”
“I have always wondered why young women are drawn to the Shadow Folk,” said Vriene. “I would think that, with your background, you would be disinterested in following a god who romances a new woman each week before leaving them to bear his children and run his business.”
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 33