The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  Lycharvan spread its hands slightly. “Why would you wish to recall your failure? A new existence will free you from that burden. Perhaps I shall take you into my House as a kindness.”

  “We can discuss that at another time. Now I wish you to take me to the spirit-vessel.”

  “That will not happen, cousin. We know that you are here with the natives.”

  Ilshenrir smiled flatly, glad to drop the pretense. Tossing his gloves to the sand, he reached into his cloak to withdraw his tiianarathi blades from their folds in space. They were not swords in the human sense; the one of green crystal was a three-foot-long spike without pommel or grip, and the wooden one was broad and blunt-edged, like a natural-grown board with a basket hilt. He saw Lycharvan’s gaze go to the green crystal and knew what his cousin was thinking: They gave you a shard of Syllastria? The fools.

  Then the haelhene reached back to touch—and channel—the spire.

  The bolt of pinkish energy that leapt from its jabbing hand would have fried a charging draft-hog. Ilshenrir caught it on the green crystal and stabbed the wooden blade into the ground, and the connection between his two weapons jumped the full force of the blast down the wood to scatter across the sandbar. In the same motion, he lunged forward, and the white wraith skittered aside as if terrified of being touched by the Syllastrian crystal.

  Which would have been wise, had Ilshenrir been aiming for Lycharvan. Instead he followed through with his strike even as the haelhene evaded him, driving the green crystal into the spire as if both were made of water.

  A streak of green shot up the roseate façade as the blade vanished into it, the spire's resonance scattered into chaos as the substance of Erestoia fought the invasion of Syllastria. Lycharvan recoiled from it as parts of the wall indented randomly into new facets, caught in flux between the spires' conflicting structures. Ilshenrir gave chase, knowing that his weapon would not impact Erestoia for long. It was too small to cause much damage before being ejected.

  “How dare—“ Lycharvan shrieked, right as Ilshenrir clocked it in the mask with the hilt of the wooden blade. The white wraith staggered, then reached for him, its hands glowing through the thin cloth of its gloves. Rather than dance back, Ilshenrir closed the distance, knowing that viciousness was his only advantage, and slammed the wooden blade broadside into Lycharvan’s head as the white wraith hooked fingers in his cloak.

  Immediately he felt the drain as Lycharvan tapped his essence, but his strikes had dislodged the mask, and he tore it away to expose Lycharvan’s crystal-riddled face and the frozen lenses of its eyes. Though not much older than Ilshenrir, Lycharvan was far along the process of fossilization, with a glittering crust over its skin and no motion in its jaw, its hair fine brittle filaments beneath the hood of its robe. The frigid radiance of the Isle’s magic emanated from it, sending a shiver of need through him.

  He slammed the basket hilt into Lycharvan’s face again, and this time the light behind its eyes wavered. A crack ran down one cheek. He felt it gather its energy for a destructive pulse and broke away just in time, jamming the blade into the sand and dropping behind it like a shield. The burst washed over him, searing the front of the blade and popping salt crystals all around, but the majority had been grounded, and his garments radiated briefly with energy-overflow before he absorbed it.

  When he raised his head, Lycharvan was in the air, unfolding light-ward and gathering power. The white robe had been fractured by the shift but not damaged, like an image in a broken mirror spread across many surfaces, and Ilshenrir saw that even when closer to true form, Lycharvan was highly crystallized. The angles and planes that should have been fluid had frozen, and though they shone with intense energy, he saw how much was dedicated to the effort of moving.

  At the center, Lycharvan’s essence challenged him. As it turned its manifold angles toward him, he let the sword fall and pushed up from the earth, unfolding himself in turn. It was difficult so close to the ground, but the spire still masked the Guardian’s influence. His sense of the physical world turned flat and simple as he opened to the lighter realms and saw more of Lycharvan—brittle, aching, sharp where he was curved, mechanistic where he simply unfurled.

  He rose toward his cousin, only too happy to fight. It had been a long time since he had felt so free.

  *****

  Dasira paused at the upper edge of the spire as the wraiths flitted into the sky. They were as close to true form as she had ever seen—one a cubist jellyfish of crystal and wire, the other a razor-edged wildflower infused with light—and too hard to watch for more than a moment. Parts of them kept flickering from existence and reappearing elsewhere, broadening, attenuating, in constant flux, but it was clear enough that they were trying to devour each other.

  She fixed her attention on the spire. Its substance had gone brittle when she cut the last foothold, its vibration arrhythmic, but she was fairly sure it was not her doing. Serindas still glowed pinkish and felt eerily subdued, almost contemplative, but had yet to turn on her.

  Through the thin crystal pane, she saw the chamber below. There was no furniture, only erratic protrusions of the spire’s material and a dim scintillation in the center that she thought might be a Weave-knot—a connection to the Imperial mentalists’ information network, the Psycher Weave. That would explain how the wraiths had found them. Two vague haelhene shapes bracketed it, and on the wall opposite her hovered the black raywings, high up near the ceiling, with Cob’s cocoon hanging like a pendant between them.

  She licked dry lips and tried to strategize. Best would be to scramble over to where Cob was and cut through the wall there, but the diagonal planes of the spire’s peak were smooth and she doubted she had time to cut footholds all the way to his position. She cursed herself for climbing up opposite him, though there had been no way to see through the spire at the start.

  Yet she would have to fight the haelhene anyway—either in the spire or when they followed her out. Grabbing Cob would put her at a disadvantage.

  This would be so much easier if I still wanted him dead.

  But that madness had passed. Though she sometimes wondered why she liked him, she could not kill him and would not let anyone else do him harm. Not without retribution.

  Of course, with the sun on that side, they don't seem to see me—or else I’d already be dead. Which means...

  She smiled as the plan coalesced. Sometimes she still enjoyed this job.

  Using Serindas, she hauled herself one-armed up the canted peak, boots braced to prevent backsliding when she withdrew the blade. In the sky above, Ilshenrir and the other wraith fought like fireworks, and she only hoped that the haelhene within were too distracted to notice her.

  The crystalline material thickened as she moved upward, the bubble of the chamber not quite extending into the apex. When she reached the point where Serindas barely pierced through, she stopped and hacked two quick triangles from the spire to brace her feet in. Sitting back, she stared through the translucent surface to see the wraiths still in position, the scintillating Weave-knot situated below her at a mild diagonal.

  She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come. Then she buried Serindas to the hilt in the crystal, carving three swift lines in it—a triangle with a level base and both sides wider on the inside.

  The severed chunk sat stable in its setting. Sheathing Serindas, she shifted position to plant her palms in the footholds and pull her legs up before her, body nearly horizontal, terrifyingly precarious. She drew her knees to her chest, then struck out with all the strength in her lower body, shoving the chunk of crystal into the chamber.

  It made a short arc through the air then plunged down between the two haelhene, straight into the shimmering knot.

  The ensuing explosion spat sparks of energy out the gap as a sound like a maddened chorus shivered up to her, all keening voices and fractured harmonies. Wild light played within the chamber, and she shoved her legs into the gap and slid through before sanity could ta
ke over. One hand caught the lip of the hole and for a moment she hung there, overseeing the brilliant chaos as she redrew Serindas.

  Then she dropped into it.

  The floor was not solid; she hit it and it gave like a thick gel, its substance roiling with auroral radiance. It kept her from splintering anything in the long drop, but she struggled to rise, to find steady footing in the flux. All around her, the walls quivered, their crystal protrusions morphing, and the two wraiths were rising from where they had been flattened by the blast, their bodies starting to separate like unfolding origami. On the south wall, a portal sputtered out of existence as the crystals of its frame warped convulsively; in the chamber’s center, only blackened shards remained of the Weave-knot, slowly sinking into the spire.

  On the west wall, the raywings shivered, their fearful hisses adding to the lingering choral wail. Cob was nearly invisible within his crystalline cocoon, but the chains—and the area around him—seemed stable.

  That meant he was alive, and the Guardian was active.

  Dasira’s relief nearly killed her; with her gaze on Cob, she did not see the first wraith approach until it was almost too late. Partially unfolded, it was like looking at a figure through a kaleidoscope—a bizarre mirrored disjunction of limbs all reaching for her bodily, as if it dared not use magic in this chaos.

  She scrambled back, barely evading its grasp, the surging floor of the chamber staying just solid enough to support her. Though she had killed haelhene before, she had only fought an unfurled one once, and that win had not been worth it. Now, against two wraiths in their own spire, with the blast she had hoped would harm them only seeming to have shaken them up, she felt a spike of concern.

  But if this was it, then she would perish proud, having done all she could.

  The hands reached for her again and she lurched sideways, cutting one in half as she went. Instead of bleeding, the limb split to the shoulder and all the others followed suit. A forest of half-hands converged upon her as something else bent within the wraith’s torso—an extra joint forming in the center of its mass, slicing its chest into thick bands, the gaps in between gleaming like oily glass. It no longer had a head, only a bright orb glowing behind the blur of limbs, but its legs still looked vaguely humanoid.

  She dodged again, and her heel hit a crystal outcropping which responded to her touch like a lamprey, jabbing needles through her boots and into her flesh. With a muffled shriek, she tore forward, feeling tiny needles etch her shoulders and back even as others snapped off in her ankle. The wraith converged its arms on her and she dropped low, feeling a hundred fingers brush down her spine like electric rods before Serindas sliced through its leg at the shin.

  Pearly blood flew, and she flung herself after it, rolling away as the wraith sang a piercing note of pain. More crystal outgrowths clutched at her, taking cloth and skin as she tore free. Across the room, the second wraith was blessedly occupied with repairing the portal, its unfolded self like a burning, fractal chandelier on attenuated but still humanoid legs.

  Sparing a glance at Cob, certain somehow that the leg-thing had to do with the Guardian, she saw him open jet-black eyes beneath the mesh of chains. Her heart clenched.

  On sheer instinct, she lurched up and leapt at the wraith that pursued her.

  Blackness caught her in midair: the crushing pressure of the Guardian's aura. Without her feet on the floor, it made her threads scream but not convulse, made darkness fringe her vision but not consume it—and the floor flattened into a pristine pane, the wraith snapping from a dozen-armed monstrosity to a stricken, reeling humanoid.

  Serindas took it in the shoulder, cutting through spell-woven robe and flesh with equal ease. Her knees hit its chest and it crumpled backward, reaching for her even as she rolled off to skid on the near-frictionless floor. The blackness shoved her down, but she had taken some distance from Cob with that roll, and though it felt like a half-ton of bricks on her back, she could still move. Slowly.

  But so could the wraith. As she struggled to put her feet beneath her, it rose with much less effort. A huge gouge marred its shoulder from where Serindas had cut, with pale light and fluid leaking out, but by the gleam in the eye-slits of its mask, it had no intention of calling this a day. Stretching one hand toward her, it made a beckoning motion, and motes of radiance flitted to it from every nearby surface to form a blinding bolt.

  Squinting desperately to gauge the moment it would strike, Dasira saw a blurry shape fall through the air behind it. Then came a crunch like a bag of gravel hitting the ground, and the tip of a sword pierced out through the gap between robe-collar and mask.

  The light in the haelhene’s hand scattered, and it grabbed at the blade that protruded from its throat. Dasira took the opportunity to rush in and bury Serindas just above it, driving up under the mask and into its skull.

  Through the mask slits, the wraith’s brilliant eyes flared madly, pale then pinkish-red as the akarriden blade began to drink. Dasira had to let go of it as the wraith grappled with her, its touch sending fire through her threads. For a moment she feared it would somehow claim Serindas—that as the spire had changed the akarriden blade’s color, so a wraith could control it—but when it locked its fingers around the bloated leech of a hilt, Serindas refused to budge. The wraith trembled violently and finally wrenched the blade from its throat only to have a trail of shimmering motes pour from the wound after it, extinguishing the light in its eyes.

  The wraith collapsed like a broken doll. Panting, Dasira looked around but the blur was gone, as was the sword that had saved her.

  As was the chandelier-looking wraith, its portal work abandoned.

  She pulled Serindas from the dead wraith’s grip, feeling it thrum with unusually sated pleasure. Pale color still spooled through its runes, but the red had begun to reassert dominance.

  Eyeing the translucent walls warily for sign of the last wraith, she moved toward Cob. The Guardian’s aura faded as she did.

  “Shit,” she said as she took in his appearance. His face was dead-grey under its tan, mouth and chin and nostrils painted with blood. Though his eyelids were slightly parted, the eyes beneath were blank as glass marbles, and under the layers of crystalline chain she could tell he was not breathing.

  Her consciousness constricted to a black chamber, everything grey outside her, the humming spire muted to a low buzz. It felt like her head was packed with wool, her only vision that of the froth on his lips. Something in her was thrashing, screaming, an insect locked alive in amber, but the rest of her had gone thick. Nerveless.

  No, she told herself. “No,” she said aloud. “White Herald, acknowledge.”

  No answer. Her world shrank further, a pinspot, a cell, claustrophobic and bleak.

  “Lerien, answer me,” she hissed.

  A tic of his cheek, a crack in the crust of blood. Her head filled with the static of relief, so loud that she almost did not hear him say, “Acknowledged.” His voice tiny, ragged. His eyes still blank.

  “He’s in there. Tell me he’s in there.” She moved to cut the chains only to realize that Serindas was not in her hand. It had slid from her lax grip, embedded now in the floor an inch from her foot, but she dared not take her eyes off Cob to reclaim it.

  “He is in the water. With them.”

  “But he can come back,” she said, hating her voice for shaking. She touched his face, the skin cool and dry, chapped by the wind. Abruptly remembering, she looked to his neck for the arrowhead on its cord, but it was gone, a clean shape in the blood from where it had been removed.

  “He is in the water,” Lerien repeated quietly.

  Nodding, she forced herself to stoop and reclaim Serindas, to start cutting the chains. She did not know how she would get him out of here except to slice through the wall, and then it was a long drop to the sand and sea. Above them, the raywings watched with their multitudes of beadlike eyes, animal-indifferent, and a thought nagged at her about them but she was too afraid to focus on it,
too afraid to take her attention from Cob.

  Only when the ceiling dissolved and the last wraith flowed through to land atop one raywing did she realize it. Cob was still chained to them.

  “No!” she shouted, but the raywings were already floating backward through their perches, through the wall, taking Cob with them as that whole part of the spire vanished.

  Beyond good sense, Dasira clambered up the nearest spray of crystals, feet scraping for purchase, then leapt onto one of the half-dissolved raywing platforms. The riderless raywing trailed the other, Cob strung haphazardly between them, and as the wall began to reform below, she flung herself through the opening.

  She hit the raywing’s broad tail, the breath gusting from her lungs, and clawed forward as the beast wobbled under her. Across the way, she saw the wraith leveling a spell with its free hand, so she slid Serindas under the nexus of the raywing’s chains and sliced through. The crystalline mass fell away, chiming delicately, to add to the weight hanging from the wraith’s mount.

  It teetered in the sky, forcing the wraith to haul on the reins and abandon its spell. As Dasira’s raywing started to drift from the other, she scrambled to her feet, gained traction on its rubbery ridged back, and charged across its broad wing to leap again into thin air.

  The wraith tried to steer its raywing away, but burdened with the full mass of chains, it turned awkwardly, and Serindas bit like a hook into the tip of its wing. Dasira swung wildly underneath it, then managed to plant a foot in one of its straining vents and haul herself upward. For a moment she had a vision of victory: getting topside, slaying the wraith and taking the reins to bring the beast gently down to shore.

  But when she clamped her hand on the thick muscle of the wing and tried to sling herself up, she found the wraith awaiting her, hand outstretched to aim a coil of power that ran the full length of its arm. Still holding onto Serindas, she could only raise her bracered arm in defense.