The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) (24 page)

“Well…not like we’re goin’ there,” Cob said, trying to feign indifference.  “So nothin’ to worry about.”

“
Nothing to—“  Fiora shut her mouth with a click of teeth, took a deep breath then said, “Really?  So you’re not planning to slay the Emperor?”

“
Why the pike would I wanna—“

“
Because he’s evil.   His minions are murderers, his armies are full of monsters, he vanishes his own people and terrorizes those outside his faith, he enslaves thousands upon thousands and uses them to fight his wars, and you’re the Guardian.  You’re supposed to—“

“
What, stop this?”  Cob stared down at her and was surprised to see her face just as clenched by anger as his felt.  “That’s not my pikin’ job,” he snapped, “and I don’t think the Guardian gives a crap about what humans do t’ each other.  The only reason it ever moved against the Imperial City is because that’s where the pikin’ Ravager nests.  If I ever go there, it’s not gonna be for the Emperor, it’s gonna be for him.”

“
Then listen to me!  It’s not what you want it to be, Cob.  It’s one bright, polished trap.”

He turned his back on her and stalked through the trees, lashing at every passing trunk with the stick.  Fury and frustration roiled together within him.  He knew she was right—Haurah’s memory of pack disintegration and murder proved it—but he could not accept it.  The heart of the Empire could not be as rotten as she said.

Because if it is—

He clamped his mind shut against that thought.  Behind him came the quick steps of the others trying to keep up with him, and for a moment he had the urge to run as fast as he could, as far as he could.  Leave them all behind—them and their questions, their advice, their scathing condemnations.  He did not need them.  He could do this alone.

But he squelched it.  From the start, he had been aided and guided by others, and he knew he would never have come this far without them.  Even now, the future was a mystery, a blank map he could not traverse without help, and as much as it galled him, he needed these comrades.  These knowledgeable, skilled backers, no matter how much they might infuriate him.

“
Pike you, Jasper,” he said under his breath.  “Pike you for leavin’ me to Morshoc.  Now I’m roamin’ blind through this festerin’ mess.”

“
It's not Jasper's fault,” said Fiora behind him.  “If he left you, it’s because he had no choice.”

“
What would you know?”

“
He’s the High Justiciar, the Voice of Athalarr, he—“

Chiming in from further back, Lark said, “I thought the Voice of Athalarr was Gwydren Greymark.”

Fiora choked, and Cob glanced back to see her red-faced and glaring at Lark as if to shut her up.  “Who’s Gwydren Greymark?” he said suspiciously.

“
The Voice of Athalarr,” said Lark, eyeing Fiora.  “The Lion’s Price.  You never heard that story?  He’s an immortal servitor of Athalarr the Lion, infused with spirit-power from when the Lion took over his body to fight one of the nightmare-god’s servitors.  Sort of like a lesser, lion-flavored Guardian.”

“
Took over his—“  Cob frowned, recognizing the name ‘Gwydren’ now.  That was what Morshoc had supplied as the proper pronunciation for the old folktale Cob had known as ‘Gidrin and the Lion’.  “What’s that got t’ do with Jasper?”

“
Nothing,” said Fiora too quickly.  Under Cob and Lark's stares, she turned an even deeper crimson and finally ducked her head.  “I'm sorry.  We're not supposed to tell.”

Realization coalesced in Cob’s mind, buoying his temper.  Trying his best to keep his voice controlled, he said, “So what you’re tellin’ me is that Jasper’s a fake name for some spirit-ridden immortal warrior?”

“Spirit-ridden and Trifold-serving,” Fiora said resignedly.  “He’s the honorary High Justiciar of Brancir and the official messenger between Athalarr and Brigydde.”

“
Who are….courtin’.”

“
Yes.”

“
So he’s…a godly matchmaker, a ‘lesser Guardian’, a pikin’ immortal, and he ran away from Morshoc when I needed him t’ stay?”

Fiora stared at him, then said, “He’s not allowed to interfere.  As a god-servant, anything he gets involved in draws the attention of the other gods.  And that’s bad.”

“How much worse could it be than
Morshoc
?”

She held up her hands, wincing, and he realized that all of them were watching him with wide eyes; that his fists were clenched nearly white, his shoulders shaking with tension, his whole frame wired as if to spring.  He tried to step back from his anger but it was like moving through mud; the choking thickness of it dragged at him, constantly pushing new memories to the fore.  His wounds opening beneath Morshoc’s touch; the panicked horses and soldiers; the corpses at the Riftwatch towers.  Fallen Paol.

The stick snapped in his grip.

He hissed as pain shot through his hand.  Fixing on it, he forced his gaze down from his stunned companions and glared at the splinters now embedded in his palm.  Even as he watched, they began pushing out from the skin, the mending itch of the Guardian’s power at work within his flesh despite the wraith-forest around him.  It was distraction enough, and he managed to swallow his venom and force the black water back down the well.

For the moment.

“
Pike them both,” he hissed, and stalked away.

No footsteps pursued him for quite some time.

*****

Dasira stared daggers at Fiora’s back.  As educational as that argument had been, she could not help wanting to cut the throat of anyone who conflicted with Cob.  Only through an effort of will had she kept her hand from Serindas, from drumming that reflexive tempo on its hilt.  Though Cob had paid little attention to her so far, she dared not give any sign of who she had been, either by such telltale motions or by revealing the blade itself.

Were she still with the Empire, the information about Jasper and Gwydren Greymark would have been invaluable.  Both had been a thorn in their side for decades, and knowing that the slippery Justiciar was in fact a cat-cultist made sense.  Other Brancirans were painfully straightforward, bludgeoningly forthright—which made them easy to find and kill.  Jasper, on the other hand, always seemed to be one step ahead, never standing still long enough to catch.

It explained why Cob had kept slipping their pursuit in Illane.  Not many people had the talent to evade the tracking of an Imperial brand, but cat-cultists could evade anything.

Now, though, she had no one to tell, nor much desire to.  Her loyalty had never belonged to the Empire, only to Prince Kelturin, and he was beyond her reach.

As for Enkhaelen, it seemed he already knew.

She did not know what to think about him setting her up for this role as bodyguard.  The stud in her ear plagued her with its presence though it had not once activated.  What he wanted from them and what parts they played in his game, she could not guess, but she would drive Serindas through his face if given the chance.

“
Ease up,” said Lark in an undertone.  “You look like you’re ready to shank somebody.”

Dasira gave her a sharp sidelong look, about to say,
Are you volunteering?
  But the girl’s attention was on Fiora a few yards ahead and Cob far beyond, striding angrily through the thinning trees.  Arik had vanished a while ago on some mysterious wolfy mission, and at their back drifted Ilshenrir, silent as a ghost.

“
I’m here as a thug,” she muttered.  “This is the way my face should look.”

Lark snorted.  “Not that I’ve ever seen you happy, but come on.  We’re your comrades now, right?  We’re all on the same side.  You can relax.”

You have no idea
, she thought.  The girl’s dark eyes focused on her inquisitively, so with reluctance she said, “Do you know what I see when I look forward?”

“
No, what?”

“
Two powers that can kill me outright.”  She nodded toward Fiora’s back, keeping her voice low enough that Lark had to lean in.  “You’ve seen what Trifolder stuff does to me, and that was a bit of blessed gunk wielded by someone outside the faith.  Her, that shield and armor—she’s a full Breanan.  Not so dangerous as the other two types, but I’ve seen her kind slay mine with one strike.  And you saw me in the garrison in Bahlaer.”

Lark grimaced her understanding.  That had been a nasty fight, one of the worst Dasira had ever survived: Shadow cultists on all sides, shadow monsters tearing at her, the very Void gaping open to swallow her.  But all the gashes and punctures and near-disembowelments had been sewn up neatly by the threads that filled her.  The threads that Trifold power would kill on contact.

She did not know why it was so—why Enkhaelen, with all his skill, would leave such an opening.  Perhaps not even the Maker of Monsters could contest against the Trifold.

“
And then there’s Cob,” she murmured.  “The only reason I didn’t die when he killed me is that it was him doing it, not the Guardian.  It’s painful to even be near him when it’s active.  If it turns its full attention on me, unbound by Imperial magic…”

“
Squish!” said Lark.

Dasira gave her a look.

Lark cleared her throat.  “Um.  A real tragedy.  But like I said, we’re comrades now.  They wouldn’t—“

“
Don’t be an idiot.  I’m not even counting our wraith friend.”

Behind them, Ilshenrir laughed a faint, whispery laugh.  Lark shuddered.

“All I’m saying is—“ she started, but Dasira waved her off.  Though Ilshenrir and Lark knew her identity, it gave her no comfort to divulge her weaknesses; perhaps they would understand that they had to keep the Trifolder and the Guardian at bay should she be badly injured, but she would not state it outright.  She was not used to feeling so fragile.

At her side, Lark exhaled heavily.  “All right, be that way.  But just let me say I’m sorry for the way things turned out.  In the forest, I mean.”

“Don’t be.  It’s not as if we’re friends.”

The girl went blessedly silent, and Dasira turned her attention forward.  The ground was now crisp with frost, and beyond the dark tree-trunks she could just glimpse open land—the southern Amandic hills, barren beneath their blanket of snow.  It had been marks since they started walking, and her stomach grated with hunger, but she knew that this was no time to stop.  They were near the edge of the wraiths’ barrier.  The quicker they got out of the woods and away from it, the better.

She could not see the wolf; no doubt he was already outside, blending with the snow.  Cob was distant too, his long legs and bad mood having driven him far ahead.  For a moment she was irked with him.  He had always been a man of strong emotions, and prone to violence when necessary, but otherwise he had kept strict control over himself.  Now it seemed he had lost the reins of his temper.

Perhaps escaping the Army had banished his fear of reprisal.  Perhaps the Guardian’s presence made him more prone to show his anger.  Whatever it was, she did not like it, and if she could have slapped some self-control into him without revealing herself, she would have done so.

As it was, she felt like a wallflower.  The future she had envisioned in their last battle—escaping together, just the two of them—had disintegrated into this.  All these people with their dubious allegiances and motives, all capable of getting closer to him than she could.

And Enkhaelen, with his unknown designs and agents.  Any one of these ‘comrades’ could be his tool.

‘Dasira.’

A shudder ran through her.  The voice was in her right ear, shivery and faint, her earlobe tingling with cold fire.  Her hand fell to Serindas’ hilt as she fought the urge to draw it and slice off the arcane stud.

‘Dasira,’
said Enkhaelen again, impatient.

It was as if he had heard her thinking.  She knew he was no mentalist—he had a reputation for being mind-blind—but facts could not dispel the discomfort of his sudden contact.  She glanced sidelong to Lark, wondering if the girl could hear him, but Lark had withdrawn a stride away and was hunched in her coat, looking irritable.

She glanced back to see that Ilshenrir had stopped several yards behind them, one hand outstretched to trace something on empty air.

‘
Vedaceirra!’
the voice snapped.

She clenched her teeth and strayed further from Lark, and hissed, “Don’t call me that.”

‘Finally you answer.  You’re in trouble.’
  Enkhaelen’s voice had strengthened in the few yards since his first contact, and now she heard an odd echo in it—a gibberish echo like he was speaking two languages at once.  Imperial and Gheshvan.

Translating, maybe
, she thought.  “Why?  I’ve done your bidding.”

‘
Not the problem.  The problem is that I’m in a watchtower in Cantorin and I can see you.’

She stopped in her tracks.  Watchtowers were how the Gold Army’s mages surveilled their territory, in combination with the beacons that lined every road and every border—