The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  “What is there to figure out, Chancellor?” railed the Madam Archmagus. “Crimson’s lack of communication put Gold in danger not only today, but in Thynbell and at the Imperial Road attack! If my people had known about this Guardian spirit, we could have dealt with it effectively in the Thynbell palace and had it sent to you two weeks ago!”

  “While this may be true,” said the Lord Chancellor, “it is not the matter currently at hand. I would remind you that we are not in private council, and that our first priority is to hunt down this spirit and imprison it. Master Scryer?”

  “Yes, Lord Chancellor,” said Arloth nervously.

  “Your aides, have they found any trace?”

  “No, Lord Chancellor. We are in contact with the Gold team at the site of the assault, but we have not found the enemy on any new scry since the beacon was broken.”

  “And the Gold team, they reported a sudden mist?”

  “Yes, Lord Chancellor.”

  In the frame, the Lord Chancellor shook his head slowly. “This is troubling. The forest-wraiths do not normally intercede in our affairs.”

  “We had a similar incident in Corvish territory two days ago, Lord Chancellor,” said the Madam Archmagus. “During the pursuit of the Corvish bandits involved in the road attack. Our haelhene allies were approaching them when the mist rose and scattered the Corvish into the forest.”

  “The Forest of Night, yes? Not the Forest of Mists?”

  “Yes, Lord Chancellor. I will send you the report.”

  “Very good, Madam Archmagus. But if the forest-wraiths are indeed mobilizing against us, we must alter our tactics. They are not direct fighters. Like the Corvish, they prefer ambushes, but unlike those wretched vermin, there are relatively few wraiths. If we are to deal with them, we must concoct a way to draw them out and catch them, so that we might turn them over to the haelhene. They will ensure that this problem does not reoccur.”

  “Yes, Lord Chancellor. Shall I contact Valent and General Lynned?”

  “Do so. Scry me when you have arranged a meeting. For now, you are dismissed.”

  The Madam Archmagus bowed her head, then her scrying frame went blank. Arloth was left with the Lord Chancellor and the Crimson General, one wearing a faint frown, the other with face averted. He wondered if he ought to end his scry before he heard something he should not.

  “My Prince,” the Lord Chancellor said, “I am disappointed. I fear I will have to inform your father.”

  “Pike my father,” spat Kelturin, and his scry went blank.

  The Lord Chancellor looked to Arloth, and the Master Scryer’s jaw locked in fear. Though the old man’s expression was mild—almost kind—there was something about his eyes, even through the magic and distance, that made Arloth’s heart turn over in his chest. Something indescribably awful.

  “Please continue to watch all possible beacons,” the Lord Chancellor said calmly. “Coordinate with the other watchtowers and the Hawk’s Pride, and make sure they observe the entire eastern edge of the Mist Forest. We count on you, Master Scryer, to give us the swiftest warning so that we might capture this slippery fugitive.”

  “Yes, Lord Chancellor,” Arloth said breathlessly.

  “The Light be with you,” said the Lord Chancellor. Then his frame too went blank.

  Arloth sat back and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Behind him, he heard the journeymen scurry back to their positions, but he did not have the strength to scold them for eavesdropping. His hands shook as he disassembled the auxiliary scrying frames he had brought out for the discussion; their metal was hot under his fingers, a tribute to the length of the argument.

  After stowing them and their basins in the bottom drawer, he hung the focal rings on a hook to drip-dry and pulled out the upper-right-hand drawer, where the contact foci for the other watchtowers were stored. Frowning, he tried to remember which ones monitored the Mist Forest.

  A shiver of energy ran through the room. He halted with his fingers on the Silverton ring and looked over his shoulder just as the portal-frame activated.

  “Who did that?” he cried, lurching to his feet. His gaze snapped to his journeymen, but they were all at their stations, all staring at the portal-frame as strands of arcane power wove together between its sigils and hooks.

  “It’s being triggered externally, sir,” said one of the men.

  “It can’t be! That frame is locked!”

  But even as the blustery words left his mouth, the lattice of energy smoothed together and became a doorway. Warm air gushed in, tinged with sulfur and embalming fluid, and for a moment Arloth glimpsed a low-ceilinged, weirdly-lit chamber full of what looked like mortuary slabs. Then a dark-garbed figure stepped through, and the portal dispersed in his wake.

  Arloth stood stock still but for his shivering. The intruder needed no introduction. He had been in the scrying conversation barely a quarter-mark before.

  His eyes, the blue of glacial ice, took in the watch-chamber with a cool certitude, as if he could discern the use and linkage of every pin and ring and frame and person in the place with just a glance. One black brow—the scarred one on the right—arched slowly, and he smiled his unpleasant smile. In the brief time since he had left the conversation, he had changed from dark robes to decidedly non-regulation attire: a short coat, tunic, breeches, boots, gloves and a thick belt, all in black and subtly embroidered with silver in patterns and sigils Arloth could not decipher. Though it was illegal for a mage to be without robes, Arloth dared not mention it. Not to this man.

  “Well,” said Inquisitor Archmagus Enkhaelen, “are you going to offer me a seat? After all, I’m here to help.”

  *****

  Mid-day in the Crimson Army camp.

  The rain had thinned, permitting messages to flick back and forth through the camp and further meetings to be assembled. This time Captain Sarovy stood silent at the back wall of the General’s cabin to the left of the rune-covered door, his own damp oilskin cloak and several others folded over one arm. As the most junior officer currently in the room, he was in the valet position, and listened while others spoke.

  Or, rather, while two of them argued.

  “I do not understand, General, how you could come to the conclusion that the command structure should be sidestepped,” said Colonel Wreth. He was a greying, grizzled old soldier, the commander of the Free First Brigade and a veteran of Gold campaigns as well as Crimson, and had been with the Crimson Army since its formation. The willingness with which he opened his mouth was a testament to his rock-solid position. “The good lieutenant—I’m sorry, the good captain—is competent, I agree, but mere competence does not make up for inexperience. Mandating that he report directly to you, General, is—“

  “Completely my choice,” said General Kelturin Aradysson. He seemed as indolent as ever, blond hair raked back, uniform coat half-unbuttoned as he slouched in his camp-chair behind the big desk—the very picture of the playboy prince who raised all the old guards’ hackles—yet the narrowness of his eyes showed his ire. His sheathed greatsword rested against the rack of lacquered phoenix armor, easily within reach, and he had set down both personnel files and brandy snifter when Wreth started talking, as if thinking he might need his hands free. It had been nearly a decade since he had taken command of the Crimson Claw, yet the arguments never seemed to change. “I shouldn’t need to remind you of that, Colonel, nor do I need to explain this mission to you.”

  “General, you are allowing him to bypass the chain of command.”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Do you not see this as inconsiderate to your command staff?”

  General Aradysson glanced to the other men in the room. They were the rest of Sarovy’s superiors: Ninth Combat Battalion Lieutenant Colonel Bentram, Second Illanic Corps Major General Gensaras, and Lieutenant General Ivraith, who technically commanded the Crimson Claw Third Army here in Illane. General Aradysson commanded the entire Imperial Third Army Group, which included the Crimson First in
Kerrindryr and Averogne and the Crimson Second on the border of Jernizan, but he seemed to prefer being here, watching the siege against Kanrodi. Thus Lieutenant General Ivraith served more as his adjutant than a commander in his own right.

  Neither Ivraith, Gensaras nor Bentram said a word.

  “It seems they don’t agree, Colonel,” said the General.

  Sarovy saw Colonel Wreth’s hands lock into fists behind his back. His shoulders were squared, tense, his chin high, and the honor-braids and medals on his uniform jacket glittered in the cabin’s arcane lights. Sarovy had always respected the steel in him, but even more now—though Colonel Wreth seemed determined to make them enemies. Like Wreth, he could not fathom the General’s decision.

  “They do not understand the consequences of this, General,” said Colonel Wreth tightly. “The captain has no experience leading specialist troops, and little with any other sort—“

  “On the contrary, Colonel. Captain Sarovy is a twelve-year veteran of the Crimson Army, and prior to that served as a Colonel in the Sapphire Eye. At age twenty.”

  “Which was obviously a mistake, General, since he was exiled here for gross insubordination, which he has also displayed to me.”

  "Yes, Colonel, I read the reports."

  Sarovy suppressed a grimace. Ascending to a colonel’s rank at twenty was not an unusual thing in the Sapphire Eye; Trivestean children began their military careers at the age of seven, and he had been neither the youngest nor swiftest of the rising stars. He had held that rank for only two years, culminating in demotion and exile for an infraction he could not properly remember. All the details had been washed from his mind, his time in the east now faint and distant—the faded watercolors of a different life.

  He did not feel suited to this post. He had tried to object when the General gave it to him, but there was no way to successfully deny that man.

  “Nevertheless, the matter is closed,” said the General. “I understand your concerns, and if I see any evidence of their merit, I will make changes. However, my openness to my soldiers’ input does not go so far as to allow their opinions to supersede my own. If you have a personal issue with Captain Sarovy, the way he handles his company or the freedom he has been given, I advise you to shut up about it before you stick your foot further down your throat. I have enough on my plate without your petty vendettas.”

  Colonel Wreth closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth. Given the whiteness of his knuckles, Sarovy could imagine the look on his face.

  “Yes sir, General sir,” Wreth said tightly.

  “Good,” said the General, and sat forward to open a file. “Don’t think you’ll be out of the loop even if you’re not part of the Blaze Company’s chain of command. That is why we’re having this meeting. Ah, Sarovy, if you would call in the mage representative.”

  “Yes sir,” said Sarovy, and pulled open the cabin door. It unsealed with the unmistakable hiss of wards deactivating, and he poked his head out into the narrow dry space beneath the cabin’s eaves.

  Outside, the rain drizzled down endlessly. The command-post cabin stood atop a small hill at the east end of camp, by the river, and with the flooding there was now a knee-deep moat around its base. A folding bridge had been set across it, and the General’s honor guard stood just above it, water running steadily off their peaked helms. To the north and south, the hound-kennels were shuttered, sandbags piled around the entire perimeter. To the east, all was water.

  Several infantry officers and their sergeants peered at Sarovy from one side of the door, awaiting the word to come back in. They had been sent out here when Colonel Wreth had begun his tirade; as Sarovy’s newest subordinates, they were not to be included in that argument. Lieutenant Linciard was at the very end, chatting up some infantry staff.

  Sarovy looked the other way to find the expected mage alone on her side. “The General requests your presence,” he said, inclining his head.

  She smiled slightly—a pretty enough woman, with rosy Amandic features and the curves that came with them. Her aquamarine robe was cut in the gown-like lady-mage style, the neckline nearly off her shoulders despite the weather, and a necklace of silver runes glimmered at her throat. Pins flashed like stars in her thick, dark hair. As she swept past Sarovy into the cabin, he caught the scent of something floral.

  Why did they have to send him a woman? he thought, and pulled the door shut after her.

  When he turned to regard the officers, he saw with irritation that it was just as he had expected: the General’s gaze had rooted to the mage. From the gleam in his eyes, she was one he had not yet slept with.

  “Warder Lilinya Varrett at your service, Highness,” she said, curtseying with courtly ease.

  “I am ‘General’ here, or ‘sir’,” said the General, visibly trying to focus. “You had word for me regarding the disposition of the mages within Blaze Company. Or, I should say, when we’ll be getting proper ones.”

  “Alas, sir.” Even from behind, Sarovy saw the flush across her nearly-bare shoulders. She had clasped her hands behind her back, and he wondered if she would succeed in distracting the General from the standard bad news with her Amandic assets. “I apologize, but I am informed that it will not be possible. Our request to the Silent Circle on your behalf was denied, and the Hawk’s Pride indicated that there is still a moratorium on lending you any aid.”

  A muscle in the General’s jaw jumped, and Sarovy conceded it was wise of the mages to send a woman. The General might have bitten the head off of a man. “I see,” he said tightly. “So they’re persisting in this.”

  “My deepest apologies, General.”

  “You need not apologize for them, Warder. But I would like to discuss this with you further after the meeting.”

  Sarovy exhaled through his teeth. He knew what that meant, and so did the others; Major General Gensaras’ shoulders twitched with held laughter, and both Lieutenant General Ivraith and Lieutenant Colonel Bentram had relaxed slightly in resignation. Only Colonel Wreth still stood stiff and angry.

  “General, sir,” Wreth said curtly, drawing the General’s irritation, “this is further evidence that the Blaze Company requires proper oversight. You have two foreign mages operating in it, and—“

  “Oh Light, Talvus, no means no,” said Major General Gensaras in exasperation. “Be thankful that the General has only unhooked one company from your command, and quit dragging out your objections at every turn. It’s absolutely pissing rain and I have my own reports to see to, including your requisitions, so may we please wrap this up, General?”

  “I think so,” said the General, picking up a hefty set of files and looking to Sarovy. “With the approval of these two infantry platoons, Captain, you will have a full company, and I expect you to have them in deployable shape within the week. And as for you, Wreth, I do not want to revisit this argument again. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever.”

  “But General—“ said Colonel Wreth, only closing his mouth when his other two superiors joined in the baleful stare.

  “Dismissed, gentlemen,” said the General firmly. “You too, Ivraith. We’ll continue the budget discussion later.”

  “Yes sir,” said the Lieutenant General. All the soldiers, Sarovy included, drew up in smart salute until the General returned it, then moved toward the door, highest rank first.

  Sarovy passed out the oilskins as his superiors went by, keeping his gaze fixed past them. He felt Colonel Wreth's stare like a brand against his cheek, but the officer just snapped the still-wet cloak from his hand and stormed out after the others.

  “Your new platoons, Captain,” said the General as the last one went out, beckoning with the files.

  Sarovy approached the desk—really a trestle table, as if the volume of work before the Crimson General was too much for standard furnishings. Drifts of reports piled high at all corners, nearly covering the map of the borderland and badlands in which they were encamped. Up close, even at rest, the General looked tired, de
ep lines around his mouth and dark smudges beneath his hazel eyes; aggravation bunched his shoulders beneath the uniform coat, and he held the files carefully, as if he might shred them otherwise with the sheer force of his ire.

  “Take care, Captain,” he said as Sarovy took the files. “You are under more scrutiny than you think. I don’t trust your mages, but since they’re what we have, I caution you to guard your actions in front of them. They may not report back to their own people, but they report to Enkhaelen, and that’s trouble enough.”

  Sarovy frowned and glanced down to the mass of files. The top was for Shield-Lieutenant Gellart, no surname; beneath that, Shield-Sergeant Savaad Rallant, senvrakaenka.

  “I am not concerned about the mages, sir,” he said, pulling out the Shield-Sergeant’s file and showing it, “but with the secrets you keep from me about my own men.”

  The General squinted at the file, then looked up to Sarovy, gaze flat. “If you want to discuss those things, discuss them with the soldiers themselves, Captain. I would not speak for them.”

  But you’re our commander—my direct superior now. It is your responsibility to see that I understand my mission, he thought, but dared not say. Since the Guardian pursuit, when he had learned how little he had been told—not the nature of his target, not the non-aggression pact with the Shadow Cult, not the presence of Trifolder heretics in their midst—he had lost much faith in this chain of command. Officers were holding their tongues when they should be sharing intelligence, and apparently it started at the top.

  He glanced sidelong to the woman, Warder Varrett, who stood at a prim distance and averted her eyes, feigning disinterest. She is why he won’t explain, he told himself, but could not fully believe it.

  “As you say, General,” he conceded finally. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

  “See that you are worthy of it. Dismissed.”

  He retreated to the door, into the drizzle, the sound of the woman’s light laughter following him out. Lieutenant Linciard approached as he struggled to clasp his oilskin one-handed, the other arm laden with files.