The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle)

by H. Anthe Davis

  The once-wraith godling inclined his head. “You recognize me. I'm flattered.” His voice was calm but arid, subtly edged.

  “All caiohene know of the False God.”

  “Then I would expect you to know that the proper way to greet a god is on your knees.”

  Ilshenrir felt no pressure, no arcane force, yet suddenly he was kneeling in the snow, cloak puddled around him. He looked up, quenching the spark of anger. This was not reality, after all. It was the Nightmare Lord's realm.

  “Much better,” said Daenivar, and smiled an awful smile—self-satisfied, predatory. “I do prefer submission in my acolytes. You are an acolyte, yes?”

  “You are a puppet upon the hand of the Blood Goddess. None of us would worship you.”

  Daenivar’s lips curved downward. “Of course,” he replied with frost. “You think yourself clever, Ilshenrir sa Mallandriach. You and all your kind. Too clever, too powerful to submit to another, no matter that you subjugate each other endlessly. No matter how far you have fallen from your origins. Tiny candles arrogant enough to think they can stand before the sun.”

  “And you are the sun?” said Ilshenrir. “You who fade in the glare of your false mother?”

  Daenivar’s eyes narrowed, and the mist thickened, rolling like waves across Ilshenrir’s thighs and licking tendrils over his shoulders. He reflected briefly that taunting a god, especially this one, might not have been wise.

  Daenivar the Tormentor they had called him, Daenivar the Terror, back when the wars between haelhene and airahene still threatened to tear the world asunder. He had tricked, subjugated and imprisoned so many of the mist wraiths—and his own kind—that with their chained power he had thought to challenge the gods. Loahravi the Blood Goddess, the Lady Reaver, had been his first target and thus his vanquisher. She devoured him, but when she could not digest his wretched core, she tore him from her flesh and tossed him into the sea.

  From that knot of bile and salt, he had risen anew, and his ‘mother’ had gleefully taken him under her wing. As, later, had the Dream-God Surou.

  That had been millennia ago. While Daenivar was worshipped now by some human cults, he had never gained a following among his own people, for the same reason that no haelhene House stayed at the top too long before it crumbled: jealousy. Many haelhene had tried to outdo Daenivar’s feats of cruelty and cunning, thinking they too could ascend in power; only a few were weak enough to pray to him, and were swiftly culled.

  “Why have you come to us?” Ilshenrir said as the mist encircled his throat. It had no texture, no pressure, but from Daenivar’s cold stare he did not doubt that it could destroy him.

  “I have not come to you, child. You have come to me. A spider does not mind what flies it traps when it spins its web. You and your little friends will feed me as well as the one I was set to catch.

  “Or perhaps better,” Daenivar amended with a purr. “I have not yet had the pleasure of playing with a haelhene who regrets his actions.”

  Despite his strict control, a tremor ran through Ilshenrir’s substance. Suddenly he could hear the courtyard-sounds, the many hooves of the chattel slaves, the clank of chains, the bellow of a bull being shackled to the butcher’s slab. His fingers curled automatically and he felt the handle of the cleaver materialize in his grip.

  Care for nothing. Cut away that which clings closest.

  He took a breath, tasting blood and metal in the once-pure air. This was not just a nightmare; it was what he had turned his back on, what he had told himself he did not feel. He threw away the cleaver, but the mist formed the butcher’s slab anyway, its polished coral almost glowing in the fog, its embedded shackles and blood-channels crusted black. Disobedient, his legs propelled him toward it, where the stench of gore and fear and beast radiated from it like heat.

  A breeze cut in suddenly and there was the taste of the sea, the sting of salt against his cheeks, and the forms of his companions wafted away to reveal the white coral walls. Above him, behind him, would be the balcony where he had stood—where he had lived so long ago. His hands moved without will to trace the grooves in the stone, and he saw his bare fingers twisted with crystal growths. In the corners the chattel slaves cowered, chains anchoring them to the walls so they could not threaten him, could not flee, only watch.

  For once, the victim would not be one of them.

  He tried to will himself to quit moving, but his body would not obey. As he stretched out on the slab, he felt the roughness of the coral against his back, saw the pearly whiteness of the sky, bordered and infringed by the many towers. Faces at windows and balconies looked down on him, distant but avid, always watching, always thirsty for another drop of blood.

  The shackles closed cool on his wrists and ankles, and suddenly he had control again. He yanked automatically, but though the bonds were loose—meant for meatier victims—the crystal nodules caught against the metal, impossible to fit through. Panic descended like a black curtain and he thrashed on the slab, arching and twisting and struggling to change form, to escape in any way possible. Not even when he had been captured on the Wrecking Shore had he fought so hard, for now he was back where he had started. Back where he belonged.

  A smirking visage intruded upon his world. For a moment it wore scaled garments the color of sunlight, its eyes flickering with golden incandescence, and he thought, Vallindas, in despair.

  Then it paled, the eyelids hooding over spheres of faint citrine, the garments gone white with red bands at sleeves and throat. The Butcher’s robe, with House Mallandriach’s lily badge at the collar.

  “No one is immune to me,” said the facsimile as it wrapped its hand in Ilshenrir’s loose hair and yanked his head back. It lifted a long, serrated knife to tap his chin and for a wild moment Ilshenrir thought to lurch toward it, to let it impale him and be done.

  But Daenivar’s grip was iron. Smiling through his Ilshenrir-mask, the godling trailed the cold metal tip down inch by inch, not cutting, just skipping along the crystallizing flesh to etch the thinnest white scratch in its wake. Over the false physicalities—the collarbones, the throat—to hover over his true self, the little light caged within his chest.

  “None can resist,” he continued, and Ilshenrir could not look away as those false eyes swirled to hurricane grey. No pupil, no iris, just shivering winds laced with a nauseating iridescence. “All know fear. Haelhene, airahene, you think that you are better than the beasts from whom you tried to steal the world—that your lack of hearts, of animal nerves, have made you immune to their frailties. Yet they will flee when they feel that tingle of warning, while you approach it, so fascinated by your horrors. So determined to overcome them.

  "Some fears can not be fought. Some, when faced, become your masters. And I hold their reins, little wraith, so who is the puppet? Who is the puppeteer?

  “Greater minds than yours have crumbled in my hands.

  “Now. Let us see what you are hiding.”

  Ilshenrir could not close his eyes, could not move or even scream as the blade cut in delicately, then deeper.

  *****

  “Now, where were we?” said Daenivar, turning his attention back to the girl as the wraith collapsed, blank-eyed.

  Fiora tightened her grip on her sword. “By Brea Eranine, I demand you let them go.”

  "You have no comprehension of the force you invoke,” said the godling, kicking his feet idly from his perch atop the hedge. His roiling storm-gaze switched back and forth among the tormented figures, a smile curling his mouth. “And I hardly hold them. They have made their own cages.”

  “Where is Cob?”

  Daenivar tilted his head, then said, “Is that what your fifth companion calls himself? He drifts through his home like a weeping ghost. Rather more mobile than I had expected, but for all his strong will, he can not escape the boundaries of my power. I have waited some time for him to return.”

  Return? Fiora thought, but held her tongue. Something was wrong here beyond the presence of t
he Nightmare Lord. She had pressed through the sudden mist to the gate-yard along with the others, but one by one they had fallen away in confusion, going unresponsive as they were consumed by their dreams.

  And Cob had outpaced them all to disappear into the fog.

  Fiora had tried to pursue but found the way barred by Daenivar and the gate. Why he had appeared to her instead of inflicting his torments, she did not know; she could feel shadows and figments forming at the fringes of her attention, and despite her prayers and the metallic red light radiating from her shield, they did not disperse. But he seemed disinclined to push.

  “You are not permitted here,” she said, not for the first time. “The covenant of the gods requires that you leave us be.”

  “Alas, your companion spirit is not here to insist, and I have no need to listen to you, regardless of your faith. I speak with you as a courtesy.”

  “In the name of—“

  “If only you could properly address your goddess, I might listen.”

  Fiora blinked. There was a coyness to the godling’s tone that she did not like, and her mind raced over his words. She had called upon Brea Eranine because that name broke through the constant murmur of everyday prayers to reach the ear of the goddess Breana directly. According to Sister Merrow, it was the defender’s call, the warrior’s, not the soft request of the homebound worshiper. Why he would consider it an improper form of address made no sense.

  Unless he meant something else…

  “Oh mortal child,” said the godling. “So lost, so blind. Would you rather show me your courage? Dare your own house of mirrors?”

  “I have nothing to prove to you,” said Fiora firmly.

  “Ah, but to yourself?”

  All around her, the mist became black trees, the ground leaf-covered. Men in Gold uniforms moved cautiously among the trunks, pikes and swords at the ready.

  Then came the whistle of an arrow—

  “Stop,” she said sharply, struggling not to look. “I’m here to aid the Guardian, not to test myself. On behalf of Brea Eranine and the Guardian spirit, I demand that you leave us be.”

  The figures vanished, the trees discorporating into mist. “Guardian,” Daenivar repeated, pale almost pinkish brows lowering over his stormy eyes. “Guardian, not the Ravager?”

  “Yes, what—“

  The godling turned to stare past the hedge walls, into the hidden confines of the maze, and she saw his shoulders tighten with anger. “A trick?” he said. “A facsimile sent to tear my precious web? I should devour all of you for the slight.”

  “What—“

  Daenivar jabbed a twisted finger toward her accusingly. Multicolored lightning stitched and crackled through his tempestuous eyes. “You conspire with him,” he snarled. “That coward, that deceitful wretch Kuthrallan and his new face, Enkhaelen. He sends just a splinter of himself, does he? And they call me conniving.” He laughed sharply and gestured, and the mist thickened to white walls around her, blotting out all but the slice of hedge on which he stood.

  “We conspire with no one!” said Fiora as the tendrils reached for her, full of the sound of flying arrows, the shouts and screams of men. “All we want is to see the Guardian free! The Ravager is our enemy! Whatever harm he has done to you, we will avenge it as we avenge all others he has hurt!”

  Daenivar sneered, and Fiora braced herself for the nightmare, hands clenched on her sword and shield. But then the godling's expression became thoughtful, the mist ebbing as the storm of his eyes subsided.

  “Perhaps this will be more effective,” he said after a moment. “Less disruptive. Yes, I will stand aside; I can afford to be patient. Mother will not approve, but she has never understood strategy.”

  Fiora stood tense, unsure what to make of this, but Daenivar seemed to have forgotten her presence. After another long moment of gazing into the hedge maze, he exhaled his annoyance and vanished.

  The mist became light snowflakes, no longer impeding her sight. Those eerie nightmare feelings—the slow-motion distortion and the lurking sense of inevitability, of dread—had faded. The world felt normal again.

  “Is…is it over?” she murmured. “Did I win?”

  A silken whisper said, ‘Best watch your back, my dear.’

  Her hand clenched on her sword. “Is that a threat?”

  Then she heard the scuff of boots behind her.

  *****

  No thought, only action. The bitch had to die.

  Fiora’s face showed nothing but surprise as she turned straight into Serindas’ stab. The akarriden blade hit her right between the ribs.

  But it did not go through.

  The tiny links of Fiora’s chainmail caught and turned the blade, and the girl stumbled back in shock and confusion. Dasira, just as shocked, looked down to find the blade dark, asleep. She had a moment to wonder what sentient weapons dreamed.

  “Breana!” cried the Trifolder girl, and the stinging heat of her goddess kindled around her.

  This was it, then. Dasira squared herself against the debilitating aura, oblivious to her surroundings. All she saw was her enemy, the little slut who had insinuated herself under Cob’s thick skin and now whispered in his ear. She would not allow it.

  Hesitation showed on Fiora’s face, so Dasira rushed her, determined to get past her guard and sink Serindas into her throat the old-fashioned way. But the girl had her shield out and diverted the dark blade by reflex, forcing Dasira to retreat as her threads spasmed.

  Delay was bad. Fiora’s fellow Trifolders would come to her aid at any moment, and then there was Cob, stripped of the Guardian but wearing the Trifold mantle himself—

  Dasira blinked, gaze flicking from side to side. She was no longer in the temple.

  “What’s going on?” said Fiora. She was staring at the blade; in Dasira’s hand, Serindas had finally stirred, the red runes flickering to life. Instinct told Dasira to strike now, strike to finish, but all around them the others were waking, and she was no longer sure what she was doing.

  “That’s…like the weapons at the lake,” Fiora continued. “And you’re carrying it. You’re not a Shadow follower.”

  Dasira retreated another step. She wanted to deny the charge, but it was obvious. She checked her surroundings again to see Arik struggling to shift into his human form, Ilshenrir on his knees with pain contorting his usually impassive face, Lark glazed-eyed but getting to her feet.

  Where was Cob?

  “You don’t act like the Shadow Folk,” Fiora continued shakily. “You’re too serious. You know Cob too well but he never talks about you. When you first joined us, he didn’t know you, and then suddenly it’s all different. Who are you?”

  “No one that matters.”

  “Where did you get that blade?”

  “Where do you think?”

  Fiora blanched and seemed to huddle behind her shield. “You’re one of them.”

  Vitriol welled up in Dasira’s throat, but she swallowed it down. In her hand, Serindas was still strangely subdued, and only tugged at her slightly as she slid him back into his sheath. “You have no idea what I am,” she said.

  “A monster. You’re a monster. I’ll tell Cob—“

  “He knows. They all know.”

  Fiora looked around, still hunched behind her shield, but then slowly straightened. “They know? They… They’re all right with that? You’re actually his friend?”

  “Always have been.”

  “And you’re— You attacked me by accident, right? You had a bad dream too?”

  “Yes. A bad dream,” said Dasira, replaying the anger and frustration, the betrayal and panic, the soul-deep pain she had felt in that nightmarish temple. The urge to step forward in faux sympathy and then stab the girl repeatedly was strong, so strong…

  But it had been a mirage. A mind-trick. Fiora was with Cob, no matter how much Dasira disliked it, and he would not be happy with her if she killed his girlfriend.

  “I don’t want to fight,” said F
iora “If we’re friends, even if you’re… I don’t have to, right?”

  “You don’t have to.”

  The girl gave her a weak smile. “You must have your reasons. That’s what the Brigyddians always say. ‘Even the abominations have their reasons.’ And Cob trusts you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not that he should,” came a voice that sent fear and fire up Dasira’s spine.

  She whipped around, no longer concerned with Fiora, to face the familiar smirk of Inquisitor Archmagus Enkhaelen. He was dressed in a militant black coat and dark clothes shimmering with protective sigils, unruly hair bound back with a silver clip—his usual attire for unsanctioned combat. Tendrils of blue-white energy unfurled from his back like ribbons, forming six writhing winglike shapes in the still air. His pale eyes burned into her as he approached up the flagstone path, the rocks beneath him cracking sharply as the freeze deepened.

  Then his gaze hit the wrought black gates, and all the amusement fell from his face. His steps slowed, his mouth twisting downward, eyes widening to show a manic ring of white.

  “Where is Cobrin?” he said, and the chill in his voice could have frozen an ocean.

  Dasira did not take her eyes off him, but heard the animalistic whine and the scuff of paws and knew that Arik was retreating. It was no surprise. He was a predator and this was the Spirit of Predation, even if Enkhaelen was not radiating that awful hunting aura.

  Yet by his fixated look, the necromancer was not playing with a full deck. She had seen him in a fury before, and anxious, and gleefully vicious—even judgmental. She had seen his madness play itself out a dozen times in fire and frenzy. But this—

  It was new to her. That made it dangerous.

  “What do you mean, he shouldn’t trust her?” said Fiora sharply.

  Enkhaelen’s gaze snapped to the girl, locking on the symbol on her shield: the Trifold blazon with Breana’s sword in the center. He raised one gloved hand in Dasira's direction and clenched it, bright energy foaming between his fingers, then turned it like a key.

  Pain stabbed through Dasira’s skull from the faux stud in her ear, and she grunted as a huge phantom hand gripped that side of her head and thrust her downward. The world reeled and she dropped to one knee in the crusted snow.