The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  Dasira stared at her in silence.

  “I’m asking this because I want you to know you can talk to me. I mean, I listen when you complain about Fiora though I don’t really get it. I’m not really sure what you see in Cob either. But, y’know, if things are weighing on your mind, if you don’t know what to say yet… I can be your audience. You know I won’t laugh.”

  “Because you know better,” Dasira said flatly.

  Lark grinned. “I’m not a fool.”

  Evidently not, thought Dasira, and looked away. There were so many things she knew she should say. So much information, just as Lark suspected, that would help them on their trek to kill Morshoc. But she could not bring the words to her lips. They were too integral to what she had become—too personal, too close to this life she regretted having lived.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  “That sounds like a no.”

  “Look, don’t pester me. Just because I haven’t fed you your teeth yet doesn’t mean I won’t do it now.”

  Lark smothered a laugh, and Dasira considered following up on her threat right there, but let it go. It wasn’t worth the effort.

  “Well, I suppose that’s your way,” said Lark. “But if you don’t want to talk, mind if I do?”

  “Was that speechifying just a way to trick me into listening to you whine?”

  “I don’t whine—“

  “Oh no, it’s so cold, oh my legs hurt, oh the wilderness is awful, oh I’m hung over…”

  “I don’t whine!”

  “You said you wanted to know what I thought.”

  “Not about me.”

  Dasira smirked. That was familiar. Almost like being in the Imperial court again. “Well go on then. I can’t exactly escape you.”

  Lark put on a pout, then abruptly dropped it. Still scanning the buildings’ façades, she began, “It’s about Bah-kai. Or…about the Kheri in general, I suppose. After Vriene tried to recruit me, I started thinking…”

  “Oh gods, don’t tell me you want to be a Trifolder.”

  Scowling, Lark said, “Don’t be ridiculous. They’d drive me crazy; I know that just from Fiora. But sometimes I think Vriene is right—that I’m not suited to the Kheri. Not that I know what else I’d do, since my major talent seems to be talking, but even within the organization, what are my options? Cayer was training me to head the kai, but that’s just because I’m unblood and halfway educated. It’s like he’s determined to spit in the eyes of the Regency.”

  Dasira made a noncommittal sound.

  “And even as a kai leader, I could only do so much. The Regency gives the orders and we carry them out. Were it really a business, I’d push for some changes, like with the nonviolence edict. It only matters for shadowbloods because the eiyets are always around them, so the unblooded troops should be allowed to fight the Empire where and when and how they can. But since it’s—I hate to say this—more a faith than anything, we’re all bound by its laws, down to the last little detail. Do you know how easy it would have been to clear you— Clear the Crimsons out of Bahlaer when they came looking for Cob?”

  “I know you opened some kind of door to the Hungry Dark.”

  Lark grimaced. “Eiyenbridge left active too long. Nobody wanted that.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m serious. If the mage hadn’t come along, it would’ve eaten us all. Strange to say but I’m happy the Crimsons won that one.”

  Glancing up at her sidelong, Dasira said, “So what, you want to quit?”

  Shaking her head, Lark said, “I don't know. But I think I’m being forced out.”

  “Why?”

  “They won’t let me go back to Bah-kai; they just keep telling me to observe, report—first Cob when I was with you, then the Corvish, now probably they'll insist on Cob again. I'm not a field agent! I went to the Corvish to be a liaison but then suddenly there was a war!”

  Arching her brows, Dasira said, “So?”

  “So I’m the second-in-command of Bah-kai! I should be with Cayer, not here!”

  “And who would replace you?”

  “A ‘blood, that’s the problem. Cayer’s been filling all the Bah-kai leadership posts with unbloods; it’s just a matter of time before the Regency gets sick of it and—“

  “I mean here. With us.”

  Lark stopped and blinked at her for a moment, dark face carved with confusion. “I don’t know, someone used to this kind of thing.”

  “Like who?”

  “A fighter, a survivalist or something.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re fighting!”

  “Are we?” said Dasira, folding her arms loosely. In her old body, this position would have put her fingertips on Serindas’ hilt, but her current situation required the blade hidden, so instead of tapping her fingers there, she tapped them on her belt. “I stabbed a few wraiths, yes. And there were Gold soldiers getting in our way. But our job isn’t to fight, it’s to get that idiot to wherever he thinks he needs to go so he can be free. Whether that needs blades, or bribes, or magic, or—what was that you said? Talking?”

  Lark made a face. “I’m not here as Cob’s advocate.”

  “You’re a liaison, aren’t you? With the goblin. To the Corvish. To the Guardian.”

  “But—“

  “Who else could have convinced Cob to step into the mist and trust a wraith?”

  “I didn’t convince him, I just offered—“

  “He knew you. Pikes, I knew you. It’s why I didn’t keep trying to stab you in the face. Like it or not, we need you here because you’re familiar, you’re…a friend; there’s no way a strange Kheri could replace you. I assume your people know that.”

  “If they did, they could’ve said as much,” Lark grumbled, looking down at the cobbles. She had her layers wrapped tight around her, fingers clenching and unclenching on the fabric. “I know it was important at the start, and I told myself it was good experience, but Shadow’s Heart, I feel so pointless here.”

  “Don’t make me slap you.”

  “I do! You all have—“

  “Eiyenbridge away from the spire.”

  Lark gave Dasira a recalcitrant look, but shut her mouth.

  Exhaling through her teeth, Dasira turned forward and resumed walking. “Don’t expect me to puff up your ego,” she said as she heard the girl fall in beside her. “Yes, you could do more, and you could certainly whine less. Like now. But if you’re looking for an excuse to flee back to your safe little headquarters, I’m not gonna give you one.”

  “Cayer—“

  “Do you really think the Kheri are plotting against you? Because if so, why are we going to meet with them?”

  “…Well, we need supplies. …And I had this idea. Remember how in that town where we found you, you were going on about the blonds?”

  Dasira allowed herself the margin of a smile. That speculative tone boded well. “Mm.”

  “I don’t know that much about the Empire, but I’m aware that I’m basically waving a big ‘foreigner’ banner just by having my face. So I was thinking about options. Disguises, makeup, magic, there are all sorts of ways, but without knowing what we’re doing beyond ‘invading the Palace’, it’s hard to plan.”

  “Mhm.”

  “Then I thought about your trick. With the ribbons, remember? There was actual magic in them, though it wasn’t what you said. But since I had no experience with mages or magic, how could I tell? All it had to do was look and act like some kind of life-binding and I’d believe it because it was too dangerous to test. So I— Oh, hoi, here we are.”

  Dasira restrained her reflexes as Lark grabbed her by the sleeve and tugged her toward a storefront. They had progressed past the residential and home-and-shop districts and were now among buildings with workyards in the back—the bigger, less pleasant operations near the northern outskirts. Tanneries, chandlers, soap-makers; beyond them the slaughter-yard, hog pens, nightsoil beds. The temperature minimized the
smell, but even blunted by the Trifolder influence, Dasira’s senses were full of the reek of animal and filth and lye. Shrubs grew thick between the buildings, probably planted for their fragrance but skeletal now. In the distance, a boar bellowed and its sows chorused their deep replies.

  Lark pulled her up the porch of the chandler’s shop, with its sign of crossed candles and odd black smudges. Tarp-covered crates crowded the steps. “You’re coming in, right?” she said as she raised her hand to knock on the door.

  Dasira shrugged.

  The Shadow girl made a face, then straightened at the sound of a bar being withdrawn from the door. It cracked open, and Dasira made a point to stay a few steps back and watch the street as Lark and the occupant exchanged cryptic phrases. Grey darkness had settled fully over the town, and in the few pools of light cast by open shutters, she saw no movement.

  “Hoi,” called a man’s voice finally, and she looked up.

  The Kheri in the doorway was heavyset, Amand-ruddy, but with shadowblood marks on his cheeks and jaw, half-hidden by his beard. His eyes were dull black, his shoulders broadened by the studded leather gear he wore. Though his expression was locked in doubt, he beckoned to her. “She says you’ve paid in blood and gold. Guess you can come in for now.”

  Dasira quirked a brow at Lark, but the girl was already slipping inside. She followed to find a tiny shop area—hardly more than a counter and a few candle-racks—with a door at the back that led into storage. The smell of tallow and wax was so thick as to be a miasma, but among the stacked crates and tubs and drying racks was a short table and a handful of chairs. A lantern sat in the middle, the eye-shaped slots cut into its shade casting a shifting pattern on the walls.

  Two more men and a woman occupied the chairs, but they made space as Lark moved to join them. Empty bottles were lined up atop another crate, and the smell of wine and chana almost overrode the reek from outside. Cards, coins and chits covered the table.

  “Pull up a crate,” said the big man. “We can do business while we play. Unless you’re too good for that.”

  He directed the comment toward Dasira, and she opened her mouth to retort, but Lark held up a hand first, a wooden chit pinched between two fingers. “We’ll play,” she said. “After you cash me in. I’m owed some back pay.”

  Dasira hid her smile. The change in demeanor from uncertain girl to experienced Shadow agent was something Lark might not realize, but from the looks on the Kheri’s faces, she was doing it right.

  The big man grumbled but motioned for the chit, and Dasira dragged crates over as he counted out coins to Lark. The Shadow girl split the pile between them, and the woman at the end—russet-haired but tall, probably western Darronwayn—dealt a new hand of cards.

  Mugs slid toward them. Dasira sniffed hers, measuring the fumes. Typical tanner whiskey, nothing that would tax her bracer even in its weakened state, but considering the crate stocked full of bottles nearby, she imagined this was just the start.

  “Lay out the plan before you start drinking,” she prompted as Lark raised her mug.

  Lark made a face, but set it down and swept up her cards. “Fine. I was just about to tell you anyway.” She looked to the Kheri and indicated her dark features. “I’m obviously not from around here, and I need to go further north. The usual disguises won’t hold up to close scrutiny, so I had an idea, but it’s tricky. Don’t suppose there’s any way you can get your hands on a Silent Circle robe?”

  Dasira’s brows arched.

  “Why for?” said one of the men, scruff-bearded and sallow. “If you’re trying to infiltrate Valent, wearing a robe won’t help.”

  “Not Valent. Daecia. The Imperial City.”

  The Kheri exchanged looks, then the woman snorted. “Your funeral. We can get a robe, sure. Plain or fancy?”

  “Plain.”

  “You got enough chits to cover it?”

  “You tell me. First, I bring a warning. The Trifolders say Turo may get hit by the Gold Army soon. There’s a native spirit in the area, and the Imperials might come down on everyone while hunting it. Second, I’m with that spirit—the Guardian Aesangat, protector of prey and wielder of the dark elements. We came through your storage-drop south of town a couple days ago. You might’ve heard about that. We took out two Gold companies and a haelhene spire along the way and now the spirit’s in Haaraka, drumming up assistance before we make our move north.

  “Third, we’re not going in blind. My friend here is bound to the spirit, but she once served the Empire. She’s our woman on the inside and can get us past all the roadblocks that have stopped us in the past. We all know how much Morgwi hates the Empire’s stranglehold on the east. Helping my group will help the Shadow Folk. Maybe set us all free.”

  The Kheri stared at Lark, and Dasira examined her cards, trying not to look impressed. It was a deft massage of the truth, and from the looks the Kheri gave each other, it was also persuasive.

  “And all you want is a Circle robe?” said the woman.

  “That’s the big thing. Travel papers are easy.”

  They looked to the burly shadowblood who had opened the door. He sat back in his chair and regarded the two women through narrowed, inscrutable eyes, then said, “Travel papers free. Robe will cost you. It’s nonessential.”

  “Says you. I see the powder in your beard. A disguise is as ‘nonessential’ for me as covering up your shadowmarks is for you.”

  The man scowled but brushed at his beard self-consciously. “It’ll do you more harm than good if a real mage catches you.”

  “I can handle it. Don’t charge me for my safety.”

  “You’re in my kai. I can charge for anything I like.”

  “Yes, but as a fellow Kheri, I’m asking you to help us. To add yourself to the Guardian’s roster of allies and aid us in striking at the Imperial Light. As an organization, I know we’re not allowed to act, but we’ve always given support to those who work to undermine the Empire. The difference here is that we have a real chance.”

  “Chance at what?” said the woman. “Are you going after the Emperor?”

  “No. His maker of monsters,” said Dasira, throwing her figurative chips in. All eyes swung to her, Lark’s included. Arms crossed, she continued, “The one who created every abomination you hear stories about, every pale shape you see in your nightmares. The one who made me. Only the Guardian can kill him.”

  The Kheri looked to each other nervously, except for the shadowblood, who fixed his gaze on Dasira as if challenging her. She lifted her mug instead and drank the whole burning draught. Slamming it down, she said, “So. Can we deal?”

  His mouth twitched, then he nodded and grabbed a chit. “This is the robe. Let’s see who’s the best cutthroat.”

  He pitched it into the center of the table, and as everyone grabbed their cards, Dasira caught Lark’s pointed stare. The Shadow girl bugged her eyes as if to say ‘you and your secrets!’ and Dasira smiled and shrugged loosely in response. This would mean a blizzard of pestering in the morning, she knew, but for now the booze was flowing and the mood was tense in a good way.

  And with her bracer filtering her blood, it was just a matter of time before Dasira drank them all under.

  *****

  As twilight drew hazily over Haaraka, Cob walked with Fiora through the gardens in the middle of the complex. They had stayed for dinner with the Magistrate, which had been a surprisingly casual affair, and Cob had been satisfied with the food—no fowl nor flesh, but fruit stewed in honey and spices, flat cakes of nut-bread, spicy roasted vegetables and greens and some sort of herb tea. Fiora had added her own herbs to her cup from a pouch; when Cob asked, she had said they were medicinal.

  Despite his initial misgivings, he had eaten well, and felt content but thoughtful. Dinner conversation had roamed from Imperial news to the Guardian’s situation to life in Haaraka, and though neither the Magistrate nor Adram was a necromancer, they both bore wraith souls, and both spoke of the necromancers’ work in em
bodying them. Humanizing them. As if it was only through such hideous magic that the Outsiders could learn to belong.

  He was not sure whether to be troubled or comforted.

  Their packs were in the rooms they had been given: small but lovely chambers in a tower with access to the long balcony that looked out over the gardens. There had been baths too, and Cob would have skipped those except that Fiora pointed out all the berry- and dirt-stains their escapades had left on him.

  So he had relented, but only because it seemed rude to get dirt on the bedsheets. Not because of her.

  Adram had excused himself to visit local friends, so after bathing Cob had expected to just sprawl on his bed and sleep until he was summoned in the morning. But he had found himself staring blankly at the ceiling, tired but wakeful, until soft footsteps had come along the balcony to the open door.

  Fiora.

  Now he walked beside her in the gardens. She had him by the arm but strangely he did not mind. With the mother moon hanging as a thin pinkish sliver in the west, the child moon tawny-red and haloed by clouds, it felt almost dreamlike. Stars pricked the clearer corners of the sky, and by their meager light the evening flowers were just blooming, white against the rich darkness of foliage. Flowering vines covered the arbors and pergolas and pillars that gave shape to the riotous greenery. Their boots scuffed on mosaic stones, and once Cob heard little claws clicking and glimpsed a fox-tail vanish into the brush.

  He felt as if he had wandered into some fireside tale where animals talked and goodness was rewarded. It made him sad, but he could not say why.

  “Look at those,” Fiora whispered, tugging his arm. He glanced over, then stared when he noticed the tiny lights flickered over one of the many ponds, some dipping so low they nearly merged with their reflections. It was like watching stars at play.

  “Fireflies,” Fiora continued in a hushed tone as she led him further. “We hardly ever get those at home. Sometimes in summer but not so many as this.”

  “They’re flies? They look like magic,” he said, just as quiet.

  “Let’s go up the hill. We can see more from there.”