The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  “Great. How many?”

  “I…have not taken a census, Guardian. But we estimate that there are ten thousand caiohene trapped within Haaraka—some of ours, some of theirs.”

  Cob’s mouth went dry. Ten thousand was a third of the Crimson Army camp—small when talking about military forces, but terrifying when considering highly magical, highly antagonistic Outsiders.

  Ten thousand wraith ghosts. I think I’m gonna puke.

  “You’re all sure y’don’t know any nice necromancers?” he said hopefully.

  Silence.

  Grimacing, he looked over his shoulder at Arik, who though no longer bristling with aggression still looked ill at ease and ducked his head rather than meeting Cob’s eyes. That made Cob’s heart hurt. “Well, I don’t think we have a choice,” he said, “but if we’re gonna go there, I need to know that none of you are gonna try to kill each other.”

  “I will kill nothing you do not tell me to,” growled Arik.

  Cob nodded, hand still on the skinchanger’s arm, and looked at Ilshenrir, who bowed his head solemnly. “I came to you in the interest of reconciliation,” the wraith said. “We can not escape these depths; we have dwelt too long here, adapted too thoroughly. Were we to rise to our old realm, we would burn like so much paper—nor can we hide in this forest forever, with your Empire and our treacherous cousins nipping at its flanks. I would see us allied. As such, I will not act to anger you.”

  “Good. And none of you ladies has a problem with this?” Cob said.

  The three women looked at each other. Fiora was sitting cross-legged with her chainmail shirt in her lap, applying salve from a jar to various places under her tunic; Lark had loosened her grip on her bow and seemed temporarily less hostile; Dasira sat still, one leg drawn up, one hand tucked behind her back as if toying with something out of sight.

  “No problems,” said Lark. The other two murmured their agreement.

  “All right then. We’re goin’ to Turo, and then to Haaraka,” said Cob, “however long it takes to get there from here. Ilshenrir, y’don’t gotta come in. Hopefully their necromancin’ won’t take long, then we can all get outta there and be free.”

  Arik made an uneasy sound, but the others nodded. Cob did not blame the skinchanger. He would rather cut his own hand off than go to Haaraka now, but self-mutilation would not fix the problem. This was their only option.

  “Let’s get started, then,” he said, and heaved to his feet.

  Lark scowled and stood as well, bow in one hand and quiver-strap in the other. “No. We’re not done yet. Whatever hog-crap you have to explain yourself, you’ll spill it here and now.”

  “What are you, still drunk?” said Dasira before Cob could respond. “This place isn’t safe.”

  The Shadow girl snapped the blonde a look. “Maybe not for you.”

  “For any of us.”

  “Ilshenrir has been nothing but helpful. If his people...“

  The way she trailed off and looked over Cob’s shoulder made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. An instant later, a jolt of alien adrenaline went through him, and he moved before he could think, placing himself between Arik and the woods to their rear. The skinchanger’s rising growl barely registered.

  Thin mist seeped through the trees, resolving into shimmering figures. Between one blink and the next, they went from frosted glass to flesh: fine-featured, slender people with wide slanted eyes and flowing garments, their long loose hair no human color but brilliant hues from the autumn forest, auburn and green and gold, wine-purple and shadow-blue.

  Cob could not help but stare. Next to Ilshenrir, they were vividly, almost hallucinatorially bright yet still not lifelike, their faces unlined, their eyes somehow empty. None showed any suggestion of gender, their clothes cut in no indicative style but making overlapping patterns and layers of shading colors, individual and almost random.

  Flowers, he thought. Walking, talking, spellcasting glass flowers.

  They remained at a respectful distance—for everyone’s safety, he imagined. None appeared to blink or breathe, and for a long moment neither did he.

  Soft footfalls approached from behind, and Arik’s growl intensified. Then Ilshenrir stood at his side, bowing his head deeply to the visitors. “Tiianarathi. Forest Protectors,” he said. “May I present to you the Guardian and its vessel, Cobrin son of Dernyel.”

  Cob shot a sidelong look at him, wondering how the wraith knew his full name.

  The auburn-haired wraith in the lead, whose garments were formed like some sort of scale armor, said, “We are aware of him, cousin.” Its voice was sweet but strange, echoic, with subtle harmonics that pained Cob’s ears. “We wish to know why you have brought him here.”

  “There was a conflict,” said Ilshenrir. His voice too had taken on a ringing quality, though not as unpleasant as the other’s. “We required sanctuary.”

  “As he is here now, perhaps we can make him welcome,” said the shadow-blue wraith. Its eyes were dark with star-like flecks, its garments made of long pointed panels that seemed to swirl with subtle depth.

  “Yes,” said a third, the green one, in armor the color of new leaves. “Show him the hospitality we so neglected his predecessor.”

  Arik’s growl vibrated the air. Cob sensed him start to rise and caught his shoulder before he could gain momentum, pushing him back down then planting his palm on the bristling scalp. The growl did not die but Arik did bow down, though Cob heard his claws dig into the turf.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” said Cob aloud, looking from one wraith to another. He could not tell if they were actively threatening him; their faces seemed to have little capacity for expression, their voices just as flat. Either way, he saw the crater in his mind’s eye, the blasted lake-bed full of steam. He would not accept 'hospitality' from them.

  “I agree with the Guardian,” said Ilshenrir. “Tiianarathi, eshar—“ He nodded toward the wraith with the wine-colored hair at the second word, who nodded back. “—You know my mission. I apologize for the breaches of the barrier that this detour will cost, but we should be away.”

  Cob frowned. “What breaches? What barrier?”

  “The one you have crossed many times, Guardian,” said the wine-haired wraith. Its voice was softer—more modulated like Ilshenrir’s—and its garments were a cascade of scales, from deep garnet at the shoulders to dark-veined green at the feet. “Forgive our lacking manners. I am Seimaranth, eshar to your companion Ilshenrir. A teacher, I believe you would say.”

  Cob nodded curtly to the wine-haired wraith, not sure if he trusted it more or less for acting like a person. “Well met.”

  “And to you. We have observed you within our barrier several times, Guardian. No doubt you can feel it, the…restriction of your influence?”

  Cob grimaced. He knew that the Mist Forest did something to dampen the Guardian’s strength but had thought it was some change in the land, not actual magic. The Crimson Army’s mages had a hard enough time keeping their protective bubble over one small camp; the amount of power it would take to cover the vastness of the Mist Forest was terrifying.

  No wonder you just sit there, quiet and polite, he thought at the Guardian. Its response was little more than a rumble from a well.

  “It is not meant to keep you out,” the wraith Seimaranth continued, “though your kind seem to avoid it by instinct. We raised it to keep our wicked kin away, just as they build their own wards to pen us in. Thus, please understand what an act of trust and fellowship it is that we give Ilshenrir to you.”

  Cob eyed Ilshenrir sidelong. Beneath his hood, the pale wraith was expressionless as the others, which struck Cob as a bad sign; he had seen emotion, personality from this one already, but in the company of its own kind those symptoms of humanity vanished. “So he’s some kinda wards-mage or somethin’?”

  “A ninseihene mage,” said the auburn wraith.

  “Redeemed and purified,” said Seimaranth, glancing to i
ts auburn companion. “We have long agreed to trust in Vallindas’ judgment. It has never been ill-placed.”

  “Vallindas is in the Grey,” said the golden-haired wraith, whose mantle and robe were made of such fine strips that they almost looked feathered. “This is a mistake. The ninseihene will relapse.”

  Seimaranth shook its head, deep gaze on Ilshenrir. “Trust in me if not in the lost. I have taken the measure of this one. There will be no relapse.”

  Ilshenrir bowed his head, a faint smile touching his lips.

  Feeling an annoyance-headache coming on, Cob managed to wrangle his tongue and said, “Whatever that means. Can we go now?”

  “You are certain you do not wish our hospitality?” said the green wraith.

  For a moment he wondered what it would be like in wraithland. Flowers and birds and crystals, like this little haven in the dark woods? Magic and sunshine and glitter all around?

  Piking shiny sparklebastards. Like we could get within a league of there without Arik trying to bite everyone’s faces off.

  “Maybe next time,” he said.

  As one, the wraiths inclined their heads. Seimaranth looked to Ilshenrir and said, “You have your blades?”

  “Yes, eshar.” The pale wraith shrugged back one side of his cloak and half-drew a sword of green crystal, then another of wood decorated with green-enameled runes. Cob stared; neither weapon had shown beneath the close-clinging cloak.

  “And you will keep away from them? You would be an unfortunate asset.”

  “I will not be taken, eshar. If they find me, I will join Vallindas. Raniosh e la.”

  With the slightest frown, the wine-shaded wraith reached out to set a hand on Ilshenrir’s shoulder. Ilshenrir covered it with his gloved fingers, grey against the softly radiant flesh. Then they parted, Seimaranth retreating among its kind, and all the gathered wraiths nodded once toward Cob then shimmered to mist and nothingness.

  Cob exhaled a tense breath and nudged Ilshenrir. “What’d they call you?”

  “Ninseihene. Corrupted. It is what we call our enemy brethren. Haelhene, ‘true folk’—that is their delusion, the name they have given themselves.”

  “You’re a—“ Cob stared, but Ilshenrir returned his gaze with such mildness that he gave up. “Fine. So you have the keys to both sides of the barriers, then?”

  The wraith nodded. “The haelhene crafted their barrier to respond to…certain traits of the airahene, in order to bar their egress. It can not contain me. And my eshar instructed me in how to breach the airahene barrier.”

  “But you're comin' out with us. Isn't that dangerous?"

  “It is necessary."

  Nodding, Cob glanced to the others. They were on their feet, gear slung over shoulders, hands just relaxing away from weapons; even Lark had stowed her bow and stood waiting, arms crossed. Cautiously he lifted his hand from Arik’s head and was relieved when the skinchanger rose, shivering but no longer growling.

  “And they didn’t threaten us anywhere in there?” he said to Ilshenrir. “Implied or anythin’?”

  Ilshenrir frowned. “Of course not.”

  Piking hard to tell. “All right then. We’re headin’ out.”

  “No,” said Lark sharply, glaring at him. “Void’s teeth, Cob, you’ll talk first or I’ll beat it out of you.”

  Cob scowled back, trying to tell himself he had no reason to feel ashamed. “We’ll talk once we’re outta this area, all right?”

  Lark’s nostrils flared, eyes widening beneath the arcs of red paint. She jabbed a long finger in Cob’s direction. “You’ve been delaying me since we rescued you! Do you have any idea how much you owe me and Rian? Without us, you’d be in the Palace right now—or did you not notice that whole ambush thing? Or this fresh new episode of saving your ass?”

  “She does have a point,” said Ilshenrir.

  Cob glared at both of them. “We’re leavin’ before somebody gets hurt.”

  “You are such a stubborn, useless—“ Lark made a sound of disgust and dug in the pockets of her bearskin coat. “Here!” she said, and flung something oblong and shiny at him. “I’m not carrying your shit anymore!”

  He caught it by reflex, then stared. An old bronze armband, the faded impression of three crossed lines on its face. The last time he remembered wearing it was in the wagon with Morshoc, right before everything fell apart.

  “…Where’d you get this?” he said.

  Lark opened her mouth to continue her tirade, then blanched. “I…I followed you after the Corvish ambush. And I…retrieved it along with the arrowhead, from…someone who wasn’t using them anymore.”

  Cold anger rose in his chest. “Darilan. Darilan had them.”

  “Well…”

  “And you took them off him. You stole them off his corpse.”

  “I…”

  He did not register moving, but suddenly his hands were knotted in her many collars and she was scratching at his arms, kicking, her braids flailing about her shoulders as he shook her, and he did not care how wide her eyes had gone, how much fear was there. All he saw was the broken sword, its hilt pressed tight to Darilan’s eye-socket. The dead face of his friend.

  “How could you do that?” he shouted. “How could you—“

  Nails bit into his inner wrist. Pain roared up his thumb, up his arm, and he went with the pull of it instinctively, knowing that otherwise something would snap. A hard heel slammed into the inside of his ankle, then everything was thrashing fur.

  He hit the turf, disoriented, and heard a woman’s snarl, a beast’s yelp. The tide of fur flowed backward to straddle him, vibrating with anger. He blinked and shook his head, raised it to see Dasira standing between Arik and Lark, who looked thoroughly rattled. The blonde bodyguard was just lowering her booted foot, the hobnails in its sole speckled with red.

  “Oh my goddess,” said Fiora from the sidelines. “Maybe we should calm down.”

  Cob patted Arik's bristling flank, already regretting this. The wolf raised one ear from its flattened position but did not break his gaze on the two women; a thin thread of blood drooled from his muzzle. “S’all right,” Cob said. “Stand down.”

  The wolf growled once more, then sneezed a red wad into the moss and sat back. Crackles sounded from within his muzzle, then from skull and shoulders and spine as he slowly shifted toward humanoid.

  Instead of looking at the women, Cob looked for the armband. It had fallen halfway between them, so he stood reluctantly to retrieve it. His ankle throbbed but already the Guardian was at work on it, blessedly without comment. The women backed up as he approached, Lark skittish, Dasira calm.

  “Look, I shouldn’ta done that,” he mumbled, not raising his head as he pushed the band up under his sleeve where it belonged. “But you made me mad.”

  “You think you’re the only one?” Lark snapped. “Where’s my baby? Where’s Rian?”

  He glanced up guiltily. “He’s… I dunno. I think he got out with the mage.”

  “Mage? A mage? What mage?”

  “In Thynbell, this fellow they locked me up with. I got him out—I think—”

  Lark made to lunge past Dasira but the blonde woman caught her neatly around the waist and flung her backward, strong for such a small thing. Cursing, Lark regained her balance and attempted another run but then Fiora was there as well, grabbing her by the coat while Dasira got her arm, and together they held her back.

  “I hate you!” Lark shrieked, thrashing in their grip. “You bastard, you ruin everything you touch!”

  Cob watched uncomfortably as the two women wrestled to keep Lark under control and finally turned her away, walking her toward the entwined trees and the crystal. Adrenaline still pounded in his head, anger in his veins, and he clutched at the armband through his sleeve, where it nestled once more in its place over his slave brand.

  Let it go. You’re the leader now. You have to be responsible, stay calm, stay sane. Not just you and a wolf anymore. Now it’s you and a wolf and a
wraith and a pack of women.

  Anyway, it was your fault.

  The sound of sobs filtered through the cluster of women, and he winced and rose slowly, brushing himself off. The skinchanger rose beside him, beastman-shaped now, and slung a heavy furred arm across his shoulders. He wanted to shrug it away but made himself accept.

  “Go say sorry,” Arik growled softly. “Is right.”

  Cob would rather have chewed his own tongue off, but nodded reluctantly. Fiora and Dasira shot warning looks at him as he approached, and he wondered if he should circle wide like with a draft-hog. Out of eye-gouging range. “Look, Lark, I’m—“

  “Not talking to you,” the girl said, voice watery.

  “But—“

  “No.” She lifted her head and fixed him with a look that could cut glass. Her eye-paint had run, drawing thin red smears down her cheeks, but her face was set firm. “If you talk, I will scream. So just walk.”

  Cob glanced to the wolfbeast, who shrugged massive shoulders, then to Ilshenrir, who seemed completely indifferent.

  “All right,” he said. “We’re goin’.”

  As he retrieved his rucksack and started into the trees, the five of them trailing behind him, he thought, This is what I get for leaving the Light.

  Chapter 6 – Crimson and Gold

  In southern Illane, the rain drummed steadily on the roof of the main Blaze Company bunkhouse. Captain Firkad Sarovy tapped his fingers on the table in idle echo and frowned at the mage at the other end, Scryer Makoura Jaedani Yrsian—or Scryer Mako, as she preferred.

  “Would you stop that?” Scryer Mako said, squinting at her cards. She was a dainty little Riddishwoman with bobbed chestnut-brown hair, a pert demeanor and a robe that showed enough cleavage to count as a dress. “I don’t play very often, I need a moment to think.”

  Beside her, Houndmaster-Lieutenant Vrallek scowled. “You’ve said that every time.” He was the head of the Blaze Company Special Platoon, a burly northerner with a touch of ogre blood ruddying his complexion, and sat with his uniform coat open and shirt off, a gold pendant half-hidden in his forest of black chest-hair. His gaze flicked slyly to Sarovy, then returned to the neckline of the scryer’s robe again, ugly face twisted in a mix of annoyance and lewdness.