The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  But they were alive. First thousands, then tens of thousands, and now a quarter of a million people who had fled Illane to escape his wrath. Who could not be converted because he had let them go.

  The land was a wildfire waiting for a spark. He had struggled for months to prevent its ignition—had even inaugurated his own diplomatic corps after his father's resounding silence on the matter. The situation with KRD1184 had nearly ruined it all, but the Shadow Cult's rage had been salved with gold and they had returned to wary cooperation.

  Only to be imperiled by this.

  "Field Marshal. Emperor," he said measuredly. "I can hold Illane. I can rebuild it into a jewel of a protectorate, capable of raining gold into our coffers. I can quell the hostilities on all of its borders and give us time to fortify, to build alliances and a force that can properly pierce our enemy's defenses without calling all others down upon our heads. All I require is permission to move my bastion back from Kanrodi, to turn it into a fortification instead of a siege camp, and to open negotiations with the local rulers—"

  "The Dark," said Field Marshal Rackmar. "You would deal with the Dark. These are old arguments, General, and as I have responded before, you need not fear the Serpents nor the Dark itself, for we have the greater force on our side. Your army may be weak, but that is due to your choices—your inability to press the advantage, your lack of will and faith. I opposed your appointment as General in the first place, and it seems my caution was correct."

  "Respectfully—"

  The Emperor cut Kelturin off with a flick of his hand. “No more tiresome speeches. General, you have done so much to coddle the heretics that a Dark spirit infiltrated your precious camp, and so little to uphold the Light that you dare consider negotiating with our sworn enemies. This is far from appropriate for the General of the Imperial Third Army.”

  “Father, this has nothing to do with the Light. Your policies and the Field Marshal's plans will lead to—"

  “Silence, boy.”

  Kelturin flinched. His hands clamped on the sheath of the greatsword across his back, as if he could draw strength from the caiohene blade within. He felt its thrum even through the enchantments on sheath and gauntlets.

  “It seems something is lacking in the Crimson Army,” the Emperor continued, his eyes paling. Kelturin looked away. “Perhaps a sense of leadership, of Imperial discipline, of proper obeisance to the Light. I am told that you eject all of my proselytizers and that you have renounced the faith. Publicly.”

  Kelturin said nothing, only stared past his father to the filigreed white wall. Radiance grew to fill Aradys’s eyes, painful even from peripheral vision. No soothing glow, no warm shimmer, but the scathing Light.

  “Were you less than my flesh and blood, that would be enough,” said the Emperor with that gentle calm that so put Kelturin’s back up. “But I have been willing to indulge your whims, to disregard your contrary nature because of my abiding love for you as my son and heir. Sadly, it seems I have given you too much credit. You are still a willful child, Kelturin, and do not understand the virtue of sacrifice. You are not fit to control even the least of my armies. I turn the mantle of Crimson General over to Field Marshal Rackmar and remand you to the ranks of the White Flame. As a Knight-Lieutenant, I think. Certainly not in command.”

  The words struck him like a slap. His army—his men—in Rackmar’s hands. Rackmar, the loudest voice in the chorus for conversion.

  He did not even realize he had moved, felt nothing but the rage and the crackle of the sigils on his back, the hilt of the caiohene sword under his hand as he started up the dais. Even in the chamber’s constant light, the blade shed a deep red-violet radiance over his shoulder as he began to draw it. He saw Lynned’s expression turn to shock, saw Demathry reach for his own sword, and then he was past them, the great blade slipping through the warded side-slit of its sheath to rise in a shining arc.

  In mid-step, he accidentally met the Emperor’s radiant gaze.

  The Emperor smiled.

  All became Light. Fire. On the physical plane he felt his muscles lock, felt the tattoos crawl on his skin and the teardrop pendant shatter, but saw nothing. There was only the pallid, awful flame that filled the world.

  His will was like a candle against the sun. Wisps of smoke rose from the gaps of his armor, the enspelled ink of his tattoos boiling away, and as those bonds broke, the spasms began. The crystal blade fell from his hands, ringing like a chime as it hit the steps.

  Everything that had been held back by the tattoos immediately manifested in his flesh. Buckles popped, straps tore from their moorings, padding shredded and chainmail strained until the lacings snapped. Inside his gauntlets, his gloves ripped apart at the seams, releasing his claws.

  He would have screamed had his throat not been in flux. The lacquered, enchanted armor plates fell away from his changing form, revealing sickly translucent skin that showed every black vein and twitching muscle, every chitinous spike that erupted chaotically from the flesh. With his illusion gone, so went the golden prince, and as his eyes segmented back to their natural honeycomb he felt the tears spill hot down his face.

  I am human, he told himself even as his teeth lengthened and his jaw shifted to its native shape. I am not like him.

  A wail arose from the lesser throne. He could not see through the Light, could not witness the return of his mother’s mad terror. It was a small blessing.

  The scathing Light released him suddenly, and he collapsed to the steps in the wreckage of his armor, the tremors making control impossible. Left like this, he knew he would continue to mutate, the old traits rising to the fore—the glassy carapace, the razor wings, the extra limbs. Already his legs were twisting and splitting, their components decoupled.

  From above, dozens of faces stared down at him: Lynned in multiple, horrified despite being an abomination himself; Demathry trying not to look; the Lord Chancellor, expressionless; Rackmar laughing.

  And Enkhaelen’s back, the silver circle on his cloak intervening where his father’s stare had been.

  “I think this is enough,” he heard Enkhaelen say as if from a great distance. Another tremor passed through him and he slid a few steps down, his claws scarring the hard material as he tried to get a grip. “If it continues, it will take me weeks to put him back into human shape.”

  “Is there something you would rather be doing, Shaidaxi?” said the Emperor in a tone near to a purr.

  “Continuing the game, of course.”

  “Ah yes, the game. Has this been your move, then?”

  “That would be telling.”

  “If so, you’ve gotten sloppy. I hope you have not run out of inspiration, considering our wager. Though I admit today has been entertaining.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Those ‘dark-energy wielders’, were they yours?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I do like surprises.”

  “Honored Manifestation of Light, will you return the sword to us?” interrupted a haelhene from below, its voice impatient yet full of sugar.

  “Are you trying to withdraw your allegiance?” Enkhaelen countered before the Emperor could.

  “We will accept you in its stead, Inquisitor Archmagus,” said the haelhene slyly.

  Enkhaelen half-turned, sharp face drawn into a sneer that reflected half a dozen times in Kelturin’s changing eyes. Under that mirrored contempt, Kelturin saw a glint of something that could have been fear.

  But that was impossible.

  The Emperor chuckled then, richly amused. “No, not yet. We have another round to play. Take him, Shaidaxi, and his sword. Cast your little spells. We will speak further once you have stabilized him.”

  “As you command.”

  Quick footsteps came down the dais and a gloved hand passed over Kelturin’s face, easing the twitching of his eyelids. A cool sensation of force lifted him from the steps. For a moment, Annia’s horrified face hung over him, then was gone.

&
nbsp; Kelturin clenched his twisted hands into some semblance of fists and let the magic carry him away.

  *****

  In the silence that followed their exit, Field Marshal Rackmar—now Crimson General—said, “Majesty. If I may be excused for a private word with Erevard and Specialist Calett?”

  Emperor Aradys, who had been watching his son’s retreat with a pleased smile, glanced to the Field Marshal only briefly. “If you insist, Argus. I have no more interest in them.”

  “Your Majesty.” Rackmar bowed deeply, the chains of station jingling against his steel torc, and when the Emperor waved a dismissal, he descended the steps with an ease that belied his bulk. Though padded by age and city-living, he was a military man and the High Templar. A surprising amount of his physique was still muscle.

  Among other things.

  He ran his gaze over the two men as they rose tentatively, their eyes averted from the Emperor. If they were unnerved by what they had seen, neither showed it; Calett's face was reverent, Erevard's a scarred mask.

  Grinning through his beard, Rackmar beckoned them to accompany him as he started away from the throne toward the corridor that led to his personal quarters. “So, Specialist Calett,” he said as they fell in with him, “you say that these troublemakers sheltered with Trifolders in Turo. Do you know where they lair, and who they are?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And you, Erevard. You say that you knew this slave, this spirit-possessed problem child. Did he also know you?”

  Erevard’s voice was rough, ragged, as if his throat had been scarred as badly as his face. “Yes, Field Marshal. I am certain of it.”

  “And how did he react?”

  “Shocked, sir. Nearly paralyzed. I would have killed him if not for his comrade.”

  “And your other old camp-mates, what became of them?”

  “Condemned to the Palace like myself, sir. Except for the Corvishman, Weshker. He was made a freesoldier. I don’t know why.”

  “With the Crimson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rackmar pursed his lips. Though he was not pleased to be going into the field again, the Crimson Army needed to be cleansed of the Crown Prince’s foolishness. It needed to be returned to the Light. He knew well the Crimson’s policy of taking in the other Armies’ rejects and of giving swords to slaves—all men who should have been sent to the Palace—and found it distasteful, if not downright treasonous. What the Crown Prince planned to do with all those disgruntled soldiers and heretics could not be good.

  So he would dismantle the treacherous web the Crown Prince had spun around himself. Convert the slaves and soldiers as should have been done ages ago. Refine the Crimson Claw into a true weapon of the Empire, ready to crush the Jernizen and the Padrastans and all others that dared stand against the True Light.

  And in the meanwhile, he still had the White Flame at his command.

  “Tell me, do you wish this spirit-vessel brought to justice, Erevard?”

  He heard a harsh in-draw of breath, then Erevard said, “Yes.” Such was the wealth of hate in that word that Rackmar smiled, willing to forgive the dropping of his title.

  “Good,” he said. “Then I have missions for both of you. Do not fail me.”

  Chapter 21 – Imperial Actions

  Captain Sarovy watched his troops move through the glimmering, layered arcane map that his mages had made. It had been six days since they had set out, five since they had received their mission. In that time Blaze Company had found ample opportunity to test their new methods.

  The map flickered and shifted above a plain black sheet spread on the ground, its lines color-coded to the levels of the smugglers’ cove down below. This was the third cove they had hit since setting up their bivouac at Miirut, each one carved into the high sea-cliffs by enterprising pirates and Shadow Cultists. Though the Crimson Army had attacked these coves before, the storerooms and dormitories had always been empty by the time the soldiers managed to find a way in.

  With Blaze Company, things were different.

  Sarovy’s gaze followed the faint sparks as they moved through the corridors of the map, pausing to clutter up briefly before they strung out and snaked further in. Over his right ear he wore the silver arc of Sergeant Presh’s communication tool, which they had taken to calling an earhook. It was now linked through Scryer Mako's mentalism to one on every officer he had sent below. They had orders to call back any time they hit a snag, and between their use of it on the previous missions and his constant drilling of them on the road between, they were becoming comfortable with it.

  With such easy contact and such a broad overview of their maneuvers, Sarovy found it difficult not to micromanage them. He kept reminding himself that they were trustworthy. He had faith in them.

  The first cove had been rough. He had not had the map then, and all the chatter on the hook had made him want to strangle people. Like most of the coves, it had been cut into the cliff with the only landward entry being through trapdoor tunnels hidden in the scrub or by rappelling down from the top. Though he had sent his scouts out to find the trapdoors and eliminate the watchmen, his troops’ incursion had been slow and noisy in the tight tunnels. The shield-men in the lead had been peppered by crossbow bolts, and most of the smugglers had escaped—either by ditching into the sea and swimming to their ships or by jumping through the shadows. Blaze Company had confiscated some smuggled goods but not caught many smugglers.

  The goods were not of much interest. Some weapon shipments, some contraband, but mostly food—perhaps meant for the northern Illanic cities that had suffered from the burning of their fields in the Crimson’s first advance, or perhaps to be sold to the Army for extortionate prices. Sarovy had ordered them packed up and sent to the Crimson camp, and then, with the smugglers’ ships lingering on the horizon, he had marched his men onward.

  During the trek to the next cove, he had opened tactical discussion with his officers and mages, aware that conventional methods would continue to be low-yield. The subsequent assault on the second cove had gone much differently.

  He was using many of those new tactics now. Having been informed that specialist scouts could make themselves all but unnoticeable, he had sent them far ahead of the march with orders not just to open the way, but to infiltrate. Each of them had been tagged by the mages with a sigil that allowed them to be tracked—a process he authorized for use on the whole force once it had proven itself.

  With the scouts down below, Sarovy and the rest of the company had come to the cove’s edge under veil. The mages had made contact with the scouts, who detailed the cove’s interior then took up positions at Sarovy’s order. Sarovy had then split his force into archers at the cliff, eight mixed specialist and infantry groups, lancers in reserve in case of breakouts through unexpected exits, and mages opening portals.

  One thing he knew about the Shadow Cult was that they did not use magic.

  Each scout had anchored a portal. Each invasion team had been fronted by ruengriin with shields and heavy armor—the type that most men could hardly move in but that the specialists, with their astounding fortitude, could wear like mere clothes. From eight directions, the infantry had torn through the cove’s interior, mage-lights zipping past them to cut off Shadow Cult exits, and the archers on the cliff had harried the ships that pulled in to rescue fleeing smugglers. With the sails aflame, men had leapt from the ship-decks, and the soldiers who captured the docks had been there to haul them out and shackle them.

  On that subject, Sarovy had made himself very clear: the Shadow Cultists were not to be killed, only subdued. These were the parameters of his mission, as dictated in their writ of purpose. The fact it had been signed by Lieutenant General Ivraith and not General Aradysson made him sour; it felt like the General was trying to retain diplomatic ties with the Shadow Cult even as his underlings assaulted them. But he had no qualms about the assaults themselves.

  By and large, the order had been obeyed. There had been broken b
ones and lacerations, batterings, concussions, but only two deaths—one Shadow Cultist caught halfway through a shadow-path when it shut, and another who had been knocked down and trampled by the advancing ruengriin. The rest, minus those that escaped, had been rounded up and sent back to the Crimson camp.

  To be ransomed, he imagined. As little as he liked playing gently with Dark cultists, Sarovy liked this authorized banditry less, but he had to admit that it was a good way to raise funds. Recoup the money he had lost the Army in the blood-prices paid for the tavern fiasco in Bahlaer.

  So now they were here at the third cove, trying out more sophisticated methods of supervision. The map strained Sarovy’s eyes with its wire-frame of layers, but it was interesting to watch the specks of light and know who they were. Interesting to see who hung back and who pressed forward.

  He had half of the lancers down there with the infantry this time—on foot, of course. Two sections, headed by Sergeant Benson, remained up top to hold the horses and watch for breakouts alongside the archers. The lagalaina and senvraka were down below, projecting some kind of surrender-aura at the smugglers, and at the cliff’s edge Sergeant Presh had shaken thin metal bracelets from under his sleeves and was trying out his own new idea: some manner of spirit-control involving aerial creatures that he guided from afar with faint flicks of his fingers. They were in the harbor right now, tearing sails and yanking smugglers from the crows’ nests. Without seeing them, it looked as if Presh was conducting an invisible orchestra.

  Scryer Mako and Magus Voorkei had all their attention on the map, one on each side like mismatched bookends. Their hands worked slowly as if playing an intricate game of cat’s cradle. The portals they had opened earlier were dormant now; they could not sustain so many arcane workings at once. However, Scryer Mako did have a fist-sized portal still open beside her, anchored by a small circle of metal and crystals braced by a tripod. Through it came the threads of energy that she and Voorkei handled, spun from the ‘master sympathetic strand’ back in her quarters at Miirut and apparently used to monitor each soldier by the hair-clippings she had taken earlier.