The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) by H. Anthe Davis Page A
Authors: H. Anthe Davis
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destination, he did not know, but staying in the stifling confines of this faux crypt being lectured at by someone who was far too focused on Imperial round-ups and massacres of civilians, desecration of temples, rapes of priestesses and public burning of heretics was more than he could stand.
Not that he disbelieved Fiora’s tales. She read most of them straight from the plaques on the walls, and he had marched with the Crimson Army; he had participated in the Fellen riots. He knew what could happen when soldiers or slaves slipped their leashes. By Fiora’s telling, the Gold Army did not bother with restraint.
But she rarely said ‘Golds’. More often, she said ‘Imperials’. And despite the weight of the Guardian on his shoulders, Cob still considered himself one of them. It was bitter to hear such vitriol repeated over and over and not be allowed a response.
They were in an armory chamber—the third so far, all uncomfortably well-stocked—when a plump priestess cut into Fiora’s monologue about historical Trifold uprisings with a brisk, “The Mother Matriarch sends for you, Guardian.” Cob looked to her with relief, and she gave him a slight smile.
Fiora glanced at Cob. He took a deep breath and tried to master himself. Politeness dictated that he thank her for her time, but what he really wanted was to take her outside and bury her in a snowdrift. Maybe pile rocks on top.
He opened his mouth to speak.
“Go on, and good luck,” Fiora preempted. “I only hope you find the freedom you desire.”
A muscle under his eye twitched. He wanted to stay angry at her, at all of them, but they made it difficult. Instead, he grunted and started down the hall after the priestess. Fiora’s footsteps followed him. There were no doors to slam in his wake—no doors here at all, only a few privacy-curtains—so he had to tolerate her pursuit.
All the life and bustle on the way back annoyed him. The crypt plan was so straightforward that he hardly needed a guide, but he kept on the priestess’s heels as they cut through a crowded kitchen and dining hall and skirted past trainees in a sparring room. Everyone stared after him as he passed, the same way they had stared when Fiora led him through the first time. He wanted to yell at them to quit it, to just leave him alone.
But it had been his idea to come here.
Arik bounded up as he and his guide turned a corner toward the ritual room. The skinchanger’s wide smile vanished as he caught the look on Cob’s face, but he fell into step just behind him, and with his presence Cob managed to let his temper go. He felt more secure with the skinchanger at his back.
Ahead, the ritual room had gathered its own crowd. Priestesses in brown and men and women in grey or red parted for him as he stalked in. On the dais, the altar had been set with unlit candles, and three women stood behind it: the Mother Matriarch in her bell-trimmed dress, her thin hands wrapped around an etched bronze torch; Sister Talla in her armor and holding a ceremonial silver hammer; and a lean woman in red chainmail, her dark hair tied back in a severe tail, her expression stiff. Cob assumed she was Sister Sentinel Merrow. The sword she clasped was not steel but old, pitted iron.
“Be welcome, Guardian,” the Mother Matriarch said, her blind eyes finding him unerringly. “Please, join us here. Your friend may await you below.”
Cob glanced back to Arik, who gave him a close-mouthed smile. The skinchanger was obviously nervous, his shoulders hunched and his stance edgy, but he folded down to the mat and Cob ruffled his hair reassuringly. Someone in the crowd made a sound of amusement, but the skinchanger beamed, which was worth it.
Resolving to ignore everyone else, Cob headed up the dais to the three leaders.
“ Please remove your tunic and lay down on the altar,” said the Mother Matriarch. “I apologize for any discomfort, but padding
Not that he disbelieved Fiora’s tales. She read most of them straight from the plaques on the walls, and he had marched with the Crimson Army; he had participated in the Fellen riots. He knew what could happen when soldiers or slaves slipped their leashes. By Fiora’s telling, the Gold Army did not bother with restraint.
But she rarely said ‘Golds’. More often, she said ‘Imperials’. And despite the weight of the Guardian on his shoulders, Cob still considered himself one of them. It was bitter to hear such vitriol repeated over and over and not be allowed a response.
They were in an armory chamber—the third so far, all uncomfortably well-stocked—when a plump priestess cut into Fiora’s monologue about historical Trifold uprisings with a brisk, “The Mother Matriarch sends for you, Guardian.” Cob looked to her with relief, and she gave him a slight smile.
Fiora glanced at Cob. He took a deep breath and tried to master himself. Politeness dictated that he thank her for her time, but what he really wanted was to take her outside and bury her in a snowdrift. Maybe pile rocks on top.
He opened his mouth to speak.
“Go on, and good luck,” Fiora preempted. “I only hope you find the freedom you desire.”
A muscle under his eye twitched. He wanted to stay angry at her, at all of them, but they made it difficult. Instead, he grunted and started down the hall after the priestess. Fiora’s footsteps followed him. There were no doors to slam in his wake—no doors here at all, only a few privacy-curtains—so he had to tolerate her pursuit.
All the life and bustle on the way back annoyed him. The crypt plan was so straightforward that he hardly needed a guide, but he kept on the priestess’s heels as they cut through a crowded kitchen and dining hall and skirted past trainees in a sparring room. Everyone stared after him as he passed, the same way they had stared when Fiora led him through the first time. He wanted to yell at them to quit it, to just leave him alone.
But it had been his idea to come here.
Arik bounded up as he and his guide turned a corner toward the ritual room. The skinchanger’s wide smile vanished as he caught the look on Cob’s face, but he fell into step just behind him, and with his presence Cob managed to let his temper go. He felt more secure with the skinchanger at his back.
Ahead, the ritual room had gathered its own crowd. Priestesses in brown and men and women in grey or red parted for him as he stalked in. On the dais, the altar had been set with unlit candles, and three women stood behind it: the Mother Matriarch in her bell-trimmed dress, her thin hands wrapped around an etched bronze torch; Sister Talla in her armor and holding a ceremonial silver hammer; and a lean woman in red chainmail, her dark hair tied back in a severe tail, her expression stiff. Cob assumed she was Sister Sentinel Merrow. The sword she clasped was not steel but old, pitted iron.
“Be welcome, Guardian,” the Mother Matriarch said, her blind eyes finding him unerringly. “Please, join us here. Your friend may await you below.”
Cob glanced back to Arik, who gave him a close-mouthed smile. The skinchanger was obviously nervous, his shoulders hunched and his stance edgy, but he folded down to the mat and Cob ruffled his hair reassuringly. Someone in the crowd made a sound of amusement, but the skinchanger beamed, which was worth it.
Resolving to ignore everyone else, Cob headed up the dais to the three leaders.
“ Please remove your tunic and lay down on the altar,” said the Mother Matriarch. “I apologize for any discomfort, but padding
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