The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  Lark made a face. “I do think that part’s ridiculous, but if thousands and thousands of his daughters can’t make Morgwi stop sleeping around, nothing can. And it’s not like I associate with the—heh, the cult parts. The crazy women who come to us because they want to be ‘blessed’ by the god. I was entirely on the business side.”

  “But the hierarchy is rather restricted to his blood, yes?” said Vriene.

  “It’s… Part of that is because staying in the Shadow Realm for too long will make you sick if you don’t have the blood, but there’s a lot of nepotism, yes. Sometimes it seems like the only way to advance is to get the god’s attention, and he only really pays attention to…available women.”

  “Not an ideal situation for an independent-minded young lady.”

  Lark raised a brow at Vriene. “Mother Matriarch, are you trying to poach me from the Kheri?”

  Smiling slightly, Vriene said, “My dear, I would never meddle in the affairs of our allies in such an untoward fashion.”

  “Just mention it in passing?”

  “I never mentioned it at all. But our doors are open to all who need shelter.”

  Lark snorted, but briefly entertained the thought. Being out from under the thumb of the shadowbloods, in an environment where her talents actually mattered…

  And surrounded by catty fanatics.

  “I’m fine where I am. But thank you,” she said. The Mother Matriarch inclined her head amiably.

  “So is this what we’re gonna do while we wait? Just tell stories?” said Fiora. “Not that it isn’t interesting, but shouldn’t we prepare? We’ll need food, supplies, proper clothes—no offense, Mother Matriarch, but your sons’ hand-me-downs don’t fit too well.”

  “I understand,” said Vriene. “And I have already alerted my sisters of your need. They have promised to bring what they can spare in the morning.”

  “Well then, aren’t there other things? Like Ilshenrir, weren’t we gonna alert him—“

  Lark blanched and patted at her borrowed dress. “Crap, he gave me that crystal thing…where did I put it?”

  “Your trinkets are in the washroom, on the side cabinet,” said Vriene mildly. “Next time I suggest you empty your pockets before you give things over to be washed, but you were all very tired, so I understand.”

  “Let me go get that,” said Lark, pushing up from her chair, “then we should go out and summon him, or whatever we’re supposed to do. I’m sure he’s wondering what happened to us.”

  “Or relaxing with his haelhene friends,” Dasira murmured as she passed.

  “Who is this Ilshenrir?” she heard Vriene say as she slipped through the kitchen door into the washroom. It was small and as whitewashed as the rest of the home, with tile on the floor and knee-high up the walls. Buckets and basins were set bottom-up against the far wall, and clothes hung from wooden rods set into a framework of slotted shelves, drip-drying in the residual warmth from the kitchen. Nearest the door was a short cabinet for washing line and clothespins, with a basket on top full of miscellaneous junk.

  Lark dug through, picking out her own belongings and examining the others with interest. Travel papers, hairpins, a stoppered clay jar, a garrote—not Lark’s—a waxcloth-wrapped packet, Ilshenrir’s crystal, Lark’s dice and cards and Shadow chits, the Trifold-augmented crossbow bolts, several short knives, a whetstone, a glass charm shaped like a praxum flower, a whole lot of leather cord, some brass half-coins, and a flat case that turned out to be a sewing kit with added blowdarts. Shaking her head, she tucked her belongings into the skirt-pockets of her borrowed dress, took up the crystal and the leather cord, and looked around for her bearhide coat.

  Nowhere.

  “What happened to my coat?” she said as she headed back into the kitchen. “I mean, the one that Arik was wearing. Oh, and I’m borrowing this cord, whoever’s it is.”

  They all glanced over, but Sogan was the one to say, “Its life is done. We will give you a new coat.”

  She blinked at him, surprised both by him talking and by the solemn way he had spoken. The coat had been fine when she lent it to Arik, and he certainly hadn’t torn it up on their run, but when she opened her mouth to question Sogan, the big man’s brows lowered, the broad planes of his face turning somehow threatening. He neither frowned nor showed his teeth, but she got the distinct impression that her argument was unwelcome.

  “All right, that’s fine,” she said, waving it off uncomfortably. Sogan’s face relaxed, and he lifted his arm from his wife and ambled off, presumably to find a new coat.

  “I shall get mine as well,” said Vriene, rising. “I am interested to meet this Ilshenrir.”

  Fiora popped up from her chair. “I’ll go too.”

  “Das?” said Lark, eyeing the bodythief.

  She shook her head. “Think I’ll turn in early.”

  The bland way she stated that made Lark suspicious, but she knew better than to pry. Anyway, being inside the Trifold wards seemed to exhaust her, so perhaps she was sincere. Lark would have thought she would take any opportunity to get out of the area, but maybe going in and out of Trifold territory was worse than just staying in.

  Sogan came back shortly with an armful of men’s coats, and Lark shrugged hers on, wishing she had three or four more layers under it. They headed out into the gloom of dusk, into a low wind and the sting of fine new snow. With Fiora in the lead, holding the lantern, they climbed silently up the canted streets to where the pavings thinned, past the guard-post where the men tapped their brows in respect to Vriene, then out through the hard-frozen crusts of old snow toward a scattering of trees.

  “Where’s the barrier?” Lark asked the Mother Matriarch, who gestured east. Looking that way, all Lark saw were the endless snowy hills, stippled here and there with trees and stitched with low rock walls. No sign of anything like the warm land she had described. “You’re sure?”

  “I am charged with handling diplomatic relations between our side and theirs, dear. I know where the barrier is.”

  Lark blew out a frosty breath, then shrugged and worked the cord around the crystal with already-chilled fingers. Tying it off, she reached up to pull down the nearest branch and knotted the crystal to it like a charm, to hang there spinning in the lantern-light.

  “Is that all?” said Vriene. “Your wraith friend will come?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so,” said Lark sheepishly. “He didn’t exactly tell us how it works.”

  Vriene made a thoughtful sound, then reached out. “Allow me. I have never met a wraith, but if this is somehow attuned to your friend, perhaps he will feel what it feels.”

  Setting fingertips to the twist of crystal, Vriene closed her eyes, and Lark watched with interest as her lips moved in silent prayer. The chill of the night faded around them, pushed back by a tepid warmth, and under her fingers the crystal began to glow with a pale gold light.

  Then a spark jumped from it to her, and she snatched her hand back, wincing. Sogan loomed forward, dark eyes scanning the area as if there might be something to fight, but she set her hand on his arm and shook her head, still watching the glow fade from the crystal. “Interesting,” was all she said.

  They stood for a while as the cold whisked away the faint envelope of warmth Vriene had created, and Lark opened her mouth several times to suggest they go back, but never did. She was embarrassed for having forgotten about Ilshenrir. Who knew what had happened to him?

  Finally Fiora nudged her and passed the lantern into her hands. Blessedly warm. “I’m gonna stretch my legs, see if I can find the barrier. Too cold just standing around. Or are we going back?”

  “Not yet,” said Vriene before Lark could speak. “I am fairly certain he felt me.”

  Lark arched a brow at the Mother Matriarch, then shrugged apologetically to Fiora. “I’ll…stay, I guess. You go. Don’t want him to show up and find only strangers.”

  The Trifolder girl nodded. “I won’t go out of sight of town. No need to wait up
.”

  “May the Goddess watch over you,” said Vriene. “Ahranxan.”

  “Ahranxan,” the girl repeated, waving absently as she started away.

  Even with the lantern to warm her hands—and her cheeks, nose, ears—Lark was soon certain that she would die of frostbite before Ilshenrir showed up. She remembered how long it had taken him to scry and open the portal to Erestoia; standing here for marks and marks made her long for the west, where it stormed half the year and scorched the other half but blessedly never froze. When the starry expanse of the Chain of Ydgys began to set and the Eye of Night rose over the eastern hills, she could not help but shudder. Even Vriene seemed to lose confidence.

  Then, just when Lark was sure she would be bidding her toes goodbye, the air between the trees sliced open to show Ilshenrir crouched before a wall of pale pink crystal. He planted two stakes on their side, stepped through and pulled up the ones on the other, then removed the near set as the portal collapsed.

  She took in his face as he straightened: more human than when they had left him but still white as snow, a frozen man. “Are you all right?” she said as his pale gaze fell to the Trifolders.

  “I am recovering,” he said hollowly. “Would that you had called me in daylight.”

  Lark nodded, then caught a growling sound and stiffened, glancing sidelong to its source. Sogan had his arms around Vriene’s waist and had pulled her slightly aside, his burly body between her and the wraith, his grey-flecked hair bristling up from his scalp like Arik’s did when he was angry. Beneath his heavy garments, she saw the ripple of muscle shifting into new form.

  Her mouth dropped open, and she thought, Good piking thing I didn’t argue about the bear coat.

  “Sogan, please,” said Vriene calmly, and though the man did not cease his growl, the convolutions beneath his clothes faded. “You must forgive my husband,” she continued. “We have never met one of your kind, but they do pass over us on occasion. Their reputation is unpleasant.”

  “They are not my kind,” Ilshenrir said, then inclined his head ever so slightly toward Sogan. “But I understand your concern. I have no intention of imposing upon you.”

  “It is no imposition. You are welcome to join us in our home.”

  Ilshenrir seemed to give it a moment’s thought, then shook his head. “My apologies. I can not rest within your walls, nor can I keep watch. Our enemies still seek us. Until this is finished, I must be vigilant.”

  “Did you find the arrowhead?” said Lark. “Do they have it?”

  “I can not sense it. I do not—“

  “Where were you just now?” Sogan broke in, his voice a low rumble.

  Ilshenrir’s pale gaze flicked to him. “The ruins of the spire Anlirindallora. Uninhabited yet still energetic. Its emanations masked me from my pursuit, and I have been recovering by basking in its radiance. I have had no contact with my vicious cousins, if that is what you ask.”

  Sogan grunted.

  “So you’re not coming back with us?” said Lark.

  The wraith shook his head. “I will stay here and watch the skies. The haelhene should not dare to come so close to Haaraka, but I do not wish to be taken by surprise.”

  “Nor do we,” said Vriene. “But if you change your mind, you are welcome to join us. Do you require anything? Food, blankets?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I would bless you, but it did not seem to work properly on your crystal.”

  Smiling wryly, Ilshenrir inclined his head. “I thank you for the thought.”

  “Cob’s still asleep,” said Lark as the Mother Matriarch and her husband turned and started toward the town. “Do you want us to come out tomorrow or wait until he’s up?”

  “You may wait,” said Ilshenrir. “I am not one for company.”

  Lark frowned up at him. Not that she was concerned; he seemed quite capable of caring for himself, and for all she knew of his people, maybe this was normal. But still, even the flower-colored snobs and bizarre sparkly monster-things seemed to travel in groups, and it felt callous to leave him here alone, in the snow and darkness.

  “You’re absolutely sure you don’t want to come in?” she said.

  “I do not eat. I do not sleep. I am unhindered by the weather. I find your opaque walls discomfiting, your disconnection from the world saddening. I will watch for my kin.”

  She blew out a frosty breath, then shrugged in defeat. “If that’s what you want. But…here.” Holding out the lantern, she said, “You need light, right? Can’t this help?”

  He tilted his head and for a moment, in the wash of warm light, his face almost looked human. Then he clasped his hands around the clear panes of the lantern, the light radiating through his fingers as if through clouded glass.

  “Yes. Thank you,” he said. “Now you should go.”

  “I know, I know. I should’ve gone ages ago.” Reaching up, Lark unhooked the leather thong from the tree branch and held up the crystal. “If we need you, we just do that thing Vriene did, right? You’ll feel it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Um. Have a good night, then.”

  Ilshenrir’s mouth curved slightly and he inclined his head. Jamming her hands in her coat pockets, Lark turned away, glad for the light of the child moon and the setting Chain of Ydgys even though the mother moon’s face was in darkness. Their fine gilding of the world was enough to navigate by. Paused halfway to the town wall were the Damiels, so close they seemed a single entity, awaiting her.

  She rushed to catch up, frozen snow crunching under her feet.

  *****

  Standing in the doorway of the middle bedroom, Dasira stared at the belongings scattered over the second bed. Fiora and Lark were sharing this room while she took the smaller third, and between Lark’s constant napping and Fiora’s busy energy, there had been someone here all day until dinner.

  Now, as she looked at the newly-oiled chainmail and sword arrayed on towels on the bed, she thought back to the spire. Erestoia By-The-Sea, impenetrable to mortal forces, hostile to all but wraiths, full of a seething chaos she still could not fully fathom.

  Yet there had been a blur of something falling from the opening she had made. A sword cleaving the wraith as she fought it.

  Someone had followed her in. Assisted in the fight. And then…

  The arrowhead.

  She shook her head. It was difficult to pin the blame on Fiora. There was no way the girl could have scaled the spire; without Serindas, Dasira herself would not have made it. Also, nothing she knew of Breanans indicated they could make themselves invisible. It did not seem like their goddess’s style.

  But it certainly hadn’t been Lark or Ilshenrir or Arik, and there had been no sign of anyone else following them. And the sword…

  She approached the bed cautiously, as if the sword and armor might leap up to assault her. She had left Serindas in her own room, tucked under the mattress—he was as useless within this Trifolder aura as she felt, and she dared not let any of the Trifolders see him—but taking chances without him made her feel naked. The others were gone from the house but that had not lessened its oppressive heat, and if they had any other divine defenses active, she could not sense them.

  But sword and armor lay inert, and when she touched them, they were just metal. No Trifold aura assaulted her, no coating of blessed oil blistered her fingers. Carefully she lifted the sword, running her gaze along its edge, trying to remember the look of the blade that had cracked through the neck of the haelhene mage.

  Had it been this one? Or had her hatred of the Trifolders turned to delusion?

  She returned the sword to its place, careful to lay it just right. Then her gaze drifted to the rucksack at the foot of the bed. Her fingers twitched; she wanted to tear through it, glean what she could about this suspicious young woman, but knew that if she was going to do it, she had to be cautious. Everything needed to go back exactly as it had come out.

  Taking a deep breath, she unknotted the pac
k’s cords and eased it open.

  It had been partially emptied, the girl's spare and dirty clothes removed. That made it easier. Nothing to refold, only the odds and ends to return correctly.

  A flask of weapon oil. A bound bag of rags, another of chain links. A knife strop, a small kit of armor tools including pliers and chisel. At least that meant the girl knew how to take care of her equipment.

  Thread and needle. Spare socks. Camp slippers—thin leather shoes that could be jammed into boots if necessary. A parcel of dried fruit. Two flasks that smelled like lamp oil. Chalk, both in stick-form and powdered.

  Time-candles. A hand-held striker. A waxcloth bundle of tinder.

  A small prayer-book, tied shut.

  Dasira extracted the prayer-book, frowning. It had been a long time since she had seen one; most Heartlands Trifolders dared not carry books outside their hidden temples lest they be confiscated and burned and their bearers punished. That Fiora carried one told her that either the girl did not fear punishment or that its presence was too important for her to give up.

  The ribbons were knotted tight, but did not make her fingers tingle as expected. No part of the book did, not even its cover with embossed symbol of sword, torch and hammer. Her entire non-reaction to Fiora’s ensemble puzzled her, but perhaps she had simply reached her limit of being able to feel Trifold power. Her threads had already withdrawn so deep inside that she was relying on her human nerves and senses, so it seemed reasonable that she would feel nothing wrong.

  The ribbons yielded, and she cracked the prayer-book open and skimmed.

  Several pages in, the hairs on the back of her neck started to prickle.

  From her previous life, she dimly recalled what the text should have been. Prayers to the three goddesses in solemn verse, prayers to each singly, prayers for certain interventions—against sickness, against burns, against bad dreams or sadness. Some historical events set down in the same manner, particularly Brigydde’s apotheosis and Breana’s martyrdom, Brancir’s acceptance into the covenant.