The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  He would find her later. This was no one’s business but their own.

  Lark was chatty, filling him in on the events he had missed. He nodded as if listening. Across the table, Fiora smothered a yawn; it was late evening, and he had evidently roused the whole house from after-dinner lassitude by throwing open the basement door and stalking out, staff in tow.

  Ilshenrir sat beside Fiora, straight-backed, his hands folded on the tabletop. His hood was down and he looked mortal, tired, yet alert. His pale citrine gaze followed Cob’s every motion, as if expecting a sign or a strike but resigned to accept it. Cob could not look at him without feeling guilty all over again.

  “And then you woke up,” said Lark. “I guess that’s it.”

  “How do you feel?” said Fiora.

  Cob grimaced. There were so many answers to that. “Fine,” he said. “Recovered. I’m ready for Haaraka, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

  “Not until the morning,” said Vriene from the stove. The smell of frying root vegetables and mushrooms tickled his nose. “Guardian or not, you’ve missed too many meals and too much proper rest to go running off in the night. Nor can you expect your friends to stumble after you.”

  “Um, we should talk about that,” said Lark. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up so we can figure out our plan.”

  Cob raised his brows at her. “We go into Haaraka. We get me unbound.”

  “But then what?”

  “I kill Morshoc.”

  “Yes!” said Fiora, sitting up from her slump, eyes bright. “That’s what I’ve been telling them! It’s not enough to just get you free; we have to deal with the monster that bound the Guardian to you in the first place.”

  “So that means we’re going to Daecia City?” Lark said, shaking her head. “It’s a crazy idea. And if we are, I’ve got a lot of preparing to do. I need to contact the Kheri, get us new papers… There’s only so much the Trifold can do, kind as they’ve been.”

  “True, we do not dabble in crime the way our Cantorin sisters seem to,” said Vriene.

  Fiora made a face.

  Cob eyed Lark over his mug. “Does that mean you’re not comin’ in?”

  The southern girl shrugged. “I’d like to. Morgwi knows I’d be the first Kheri to step across the barrier in….ever. But look. Whatever you do in there, Morshoc might be able to feel it, right? I’ve been thinking about it and he’s been on your tail starting in Bahlaer. Maybe he’s distracted now, or maybe all our running and hiding has thrown him, but it’s obvious that he has some way to find you. So if you do something to piss him off—like, say, breaking your bonds—I’m pretty sure we’ll have to start running immediately or else bring his wrath down on us. No time to stop back here and browse the shops for the last few things we need.”

  “But that’s why you’re comin’ in,” Cob said. “So we can all go together.”

  Ilshenrir cleared his throat softly. “I can not cross the barrier. It would imprison me.”

  Cob looked at him, frowning, then to the washroom door as it cracked open and freshly-scrubbed Arik peeked out. The skinchanger gave a weak smile and said, “I would be useless there. Worse than useless. I am a little wolf, an enemy to the cursed wraith. It will eat me and not think twice.”

  “So…all right, Arik and Ilshenrir can’t go. And you won’t,” he said, gesturing to Lark, “because we might need stuff. Anyone else?”

  “I stay with Lark,” said Dasira.

  That did not surprise Cob, but still it angered him. “So you all followed me this far and now you’re gonna stand at the barrier and say ‘sorry, we can’t come in’?”

  “I’m coming with you,” Fiora said determinedly.

  From the doorway, Arik gave Cob a broad wink.

  Cob squelched the urge to throw the mug at him. Instead, he gave Fiora a nod of thanks and sat back in his chair to glare at everyone else. Lark and Dasira looked away uncomfortably; Ilshenrir simply bowed his head.

  Exhaling his anger, Cob said, “Fine. I know you’ve all been through a lot t’ help me. I won’t hold it against you. But I don’t like the idea of separatin’. If somethin’ happens in Haaraka, you’ll never know about it.”

  “I will monitor the situation via the barrier,” said Ilshenrir. “I have studied it closely in these past few days. By crossing into the domain of the Carad Narath—the Thorn Protector—you will cause an aberration in the energy of the land that will be reflected in the barrier. What is done to you will be visible in its responses. I do not know that I can track you, but I will be aware of the unraveling of your bonds, as the Guardian’s freedom will change the balance of power within the land.”

  “And if you need to contact us, you can do it through Ilshenrir,” said Lark, digging around in her coat. She withdrew a chunk of crystal on a cord and held it out to Cob. “It’s his. Probably you can do something Guardian-ish to it and he’ll feel it.”

  “Just so,” said the wraith.

  Cob accepted the crystal doubtfully. “We need more of a plan, not jus’ ‘go in there and poke us if you need us’. It’s a land full of wraith-souled necromancers, right? Two of us against all of them…”

  “What can six of us accomplish there that two can’t?” said Dasira. “This isn’t about force of arms. It isn’t even about watching each other’s backs. Like you said, it’s full of necromancers. If you can’t stand up to them alone, then none of us can help you.”

  He grimaced, but she was right. Leaving his companions out here would, at worst, spare them the death he might bring upon them. At best, it would allow them to get on with the hunt for Morshoc that much quicker. “Fine,” he said. “Four stay and two go. Still, pike you all for backin’ out.”

  “We’re not backing out,” said Lark. “We’re providing external support.”

  Cob gave her a dirty look.

  Vriene intervened at that moment, sliding a plate of ham and roots and mushrooms and flatbread in front of Cob, and he lost all track of the conversation in his sudden need for a fork. A second plate plunked down beside his, and then Arik was there, placing an overturned bucket next to his chair and perching on it happily.

  “You want my chair? Think I’m gonna turn in,” said Dasira.

  “Yes, please,” said Vriene. “The buckets belong in the washroom.”

  Cob half-turned to watch Dasira go, but she did not glance back. Beside him, Arik made grouchy sounds but got up and hauled the bucket back to the washroom then took Dasira’s chair, pulling it up to Cob’s side again and slinging a brawny arm across his shoulders as he took up his own fork. Cob gave him a warning look but did not shrug it off. It was not as discomfiting as the skinchanger’s sad eyes would have been.

  They bent to their dinner ravenously. Now and then Cob caught Arik sneaking food to him—mostly the roots, which was no surprise—but after a while there was a pile of ham chunks at the corner of his plate that just made his stomach tighten when he considered them. He cleaned everything else away and finally came up for air to see Arik regarding him quizzically.

  “You do not want the ham?” the skinchanger said.

  Cob shook his head. “Feel kinda ill when I eat it now.”

  For a moment Arik looked from his pile of offerings to Cob, profoundly crestfallen. Then his eyes lit and he grabbed the young man in a bear-hug. “You’re pregnant!” he crowed. “True love conquers all! Come, my little butterbean, we must nest.”

  “Get off me!” Cob sputtered, face hot. Across the table, Lark choked on her tea; Fiora looked scandalized. Cob levered apart from the beaming skinchanger then punched him in the shoulder until he leaned away with a wounded look.

  “This is no way to treat the father of your pups,” he said.

  “Take your pikin’ ham and shut up!”

  With a grin, Arik stole the plate away and bent to it, ignoring such niceties as forks. At the end of the table, Lark pillowed her head in her arms, shoulders shaking as she tried to muffle laughter; straight across, Fiora stared
at Cob like he had grown another head. He felt the blush creep up to his hairline and down the back of his neck.

  “He jus’ makes things up for fun,” he said defensively. “There’s no, uh….no…”

  “Alas, he is not pregnant,” Arik interrupted. “But he is a good Stag. Manly, virile. He will father many children once he learns to take his trousers off.”

  Cob punched him again.

  “Here, Cob, I will demonstrate,” Arik continued, unfazed. He set the plate aside and reached toward his own trouser cords.

  Cob was about to tackle him off the chair when Vriene intervened, leaning in to take the plate and arch a motherly brow at Arik. The skinchanger smiled sheepishly and raised his hands away from the danger area.

  “It sounds to me that you are being affected by the Guardian’s presence, Cob,” said Vriene as she withdrew with the plate, still keeping a stern eye on Arik. “From what I know of the spirits, their influence on their folk is far more direct than the Goddesses’ influence on us. For example, Erro the Bear is always present within my husband, no matter his form, as I imagine Raun the Wolf is ever-present within you, Arik.”

  Arik’s shoulders wilted, and Cob glanced sidelong to him, questioning. The skinchanger did not meet Cob’s gaze but nodded. “We feel what Raun feels, hurt when he hurts, rage when he rages,” he said quietly.

  “And your forms, your wolf-shape and man-shape—they mend because Raun is not wounded, correct?” said Vriene. She dunked the dishes in the washbasin then rested one hip against the counter, half-turned so she could look between her husband, Cob and Arik. “When you move between forms, your hurts mend because you touch Raun’s power, and he is unharmed.”

  Arik nodded solemnly.

  To Cob, she said, “The Guardian acts upon you similarly, even though you are not a skinchanger. Its presence brings out aspects of your ancestral bloodlines, and so you begin to feel the remnants of the Stag. Meat loses its appeal. Other foods will likely follow. There may come a time when you find yourself eating twigs, leaves, but you should not be concerned. It is what you are.”

  Cob grimaced. The food issue did not bother him; despite the fact that he had fantasized about bacon and cheese and all those delicious things throughout his lean days in the army, he could survive without them. The trouble was with things like his nose—unbroken though still bent as ever—and his height, now far taller than a Kerrindrixi should be. The Guardian was shaping him, not just his appetite.

  “What do gods do?” he said, not about to share his feelings.

  Vriene pursed her lips in thought, then said, “I can not tell you what non-Ascendants do. My lady Brigydde and Fiora’s lady Breana were both once human, and have what you might call a definition. Brigydde is defined as the Mother, the Healer, the Seer, so when her power reaches down to her faithful, it infuses only those who have been mothers, only those who have the heart to heal and the vision to see. I do not mean physical vision, for Brigydde is blind, but an openness to other perspectives. Openness to the future, to her prophecies."

  "They are not prophecies," said Ilshenrir mildly.

  The Trifolders looked at him: Vriene with curiosity, Fiora automatically hostile. "She is the Prophet and the Seer," Vriene reiterated in a tone of light rebuke.

  The wraith shook his head. "She sees like I do, and thus what she sees are possible futures, not the fated truth. Not prophecy as humans define it."

  Cob eyed Ilshenrir, surprised. "Y'can see the future?"

  "As I just said—" The wraith sighed. "Possibilities lie before us like endlessly branching streams. When I am not blindfolded by proximity to earth—or to you, Guardian—I can see some distance along the streams, and thus select the most comfortable path, but none of what I see will necessarily come to be. Our future is ever in flux. The Brigyddians and their goddess see in the same way, but as humans they latch onto the most dramatic of possibilities, which they delusionally consider inevitable—"

  Growling, Sogan loomed toward the wraith, who fell silent. Vriene patted her husband's arm, her mouth curved in a frown, but then gave Ilshenrir a nod of thoughtful acknowledgment.

  “Regardless," she said, "my goddess still requires an openness to such...possibilities from her followers. She can touch those outside her definition gently, but the more power she lends us, the more we must be built in her image to keep that image from overwhelming ours. Men can not take power from Brigydde because they do not have the body, the physical vessel that can accept her gift. Virgins likewise. The cruel and vindictive find their hearts forcefully softened by her mercy, which is why at one time female criminals were sent to our temples to learn our ways. We no longer do this; it is a grave imposition upon their free will.

  “As for the seeing, those who draw upon the Goddess’s power for great tasks risk their physical eyes, for when she comes to you, so do her visions, and they are strong enough to burn out mortal sight. We pledge to accept this danger, and though our supporters fear for us, they know we do it out of love for them. We do it so we can protect them.”

  Cob nodded slowly, thinking of Mother Matriarch Aglavyn, blind and dying, hidden away in the Cantorin catacombs. “And Breana?”

  “She imposes looser restrictions upon her followers. Men or women, lovers or chaste, all the young folk are permitted—for she was all of those things, or pretended to be, in her quest to bring righteousness to the army of her day. She died protecting civilians from her corrupted comrades, and so it is the way of the Breanans to join armies where they can, or militias, mercenaries, guard forces, in order to protect those who can not protect themselves. Either from each other or from the ones that are meant to watch over them.”

  “We do have to be careful though,” Fiora interjected. “Brigydde gives Breana the power to...well, exist, so every action we take has to be acceptable to her. To both of them. When their views come into conflict, we feel it; it's really uncomfortable.”

  "So you kinda serve both, if you serve Breana?" said Cob.

  Fiora nodded.

  “And the third goddess? Brancir?”

  Fiora deferred to the Mother Matriarch, who said, “She is an elemental spirit. I believe she inspires her followers more than she infuses them, as I have seen her power at work in their arms and armor but not so much in the Brancirans themselves. She has a strong following among her own people, the Silver Ones, but she touches humans only lightly—perhaps she fears harming them. Regardless, the Brancirans act mostly on their own, but the items they forge are potent and guided by the goddess more often than not.”

  “And y’ don’t know about the other gods? The, uh…” Cob frowned. He knew there were more than just the Trifold. The Shadow Cult, the Nemesis, the God of Law and the nightmare-lord Fiora had mentioned...

  “I fear we have a distant relationship with the others,” said Vriene. “The Shadow God puzzles us; sometimes we are friends and sometimes we are at odds. We are not certain how he aids his worshipers.”

  “Through the eiyets, mostly,” said Lark. “And the shadowbloods. If you pray directly to Morgwi, he won’t answer; he’s usually busy chasing skirts. But the little shadows are everywhere, and if you know how to catch their attention, they’ll come to you. You don’t need to be a priestess to get their aid.”

  “And the other gods?” Cob prompted. “Six women, three men is what I heard, but...”

  Lark looked to Vriene, who pursed her lips slightly. “I can not tell you how they operate, but there are more than nine.”

  “Death and the Dreamer, yeah.”

  “And others. The three great men, I imagine you know. Law, Light and Shadow. Of the six women, three are the Trifold, but the others are those we consider our opposites: the Nemesis, the Blood Goddess, and Lady Ruin. Then Death and Surou, as you mentioned, and then the lesser gods Iroliyale, Tatska, and the Blood Goddess’s sons Daenivar and Rhehevrok.”

  “Iroliyale, he’s an ally of Morgwi’s,” said Lark. “The god of travel.”

  “And an ally
of the sun-god, the True Light, though not of the Imperial Light,” Vriene confirmed. “Tatska of the Moon is his nightly counterpart, who watches over dark roads.”

  Cob made a face, not wanting to start an argument about the Light. “I know Law’s dead and it’s the Nemesis’s fault. She’s your enemy?”

  A shadow crossed Vriene’s features, then she turned to pluck the teakettle from the stove and pour herself a cup. In silence she seated herself at the table, her husband moving to loom behind her protectively, and for a moment she just looked into her cup as if divining the meaning of the swirling water. Then she said, “We do not know.”

  “She’s the crazy goddess of assassins. How can y’ not—“

  “She has never moved against us. I do not know if she can. When she fought Law, she tore him into three pieces, two of which fell into the material world before her webs could catch them. Brancir claimed one of them, which turned into a shield in her hands, the Aegis of Justice; the Blood Goddess snatched up the other, which became a helm, the Crown of Authority. The third, which the Nemesis retained, became a sword—but as it had been Law’s sword, it operates only by Law’s rules. She can not use it to smite the innocent. She has named it Vengeance, but if there is no reason for her to take revenge, she can not strike. Her assassins are more dangerous to their employer than to their target if the contract violates that rule.”

  That set Cob back in his seat, but not for long. “How about this Blood Goddess then?”

  Beside him, Fiora snorted. “Oh, she’s definitely the enemy.”

  “The Mother of Rage, the Berserker Queen, the Slavemistress,” Vriene intoned in agreement. “We have fought her for millennia. She ruled Lisalhan before the godswars forced the greater gods to step back from the world—which she circumvented by giving the land to her first son. Her influence is still strong throughout the west. Throughout all the lands, really, for her purview is war and domination, and we seem to have no shortage of that. Some of us considered the Imperial Light to be one of her facets.”