The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) (50 page)

But it was not just his boots that impeded him here.  Even with them on, he should have felt some connection to the earth, but in the middle of cocking his arm for another fling, he hit a concealed root and went down face-first among the weeds.  Cursing, he lurched up and saw her halted ahead, looking for him.  When their eyes met, she grinned broadly, then chucked a wad of moss at him.  He ducked, straightened, and took the next wad in the eyebrow.

“
That’s it!  You’re dead!” he hollered.  She laughed madly and plunged through the field.

She was starting to tire; he could see it in her gait.  His legs burned but he was used to this kind of exertion and rapidly closed the distance, so focused that he did not even think when she suddenly stopped.  He just leapt forward in a tackle.

She went down, and then they both went down.  Down, down, down the hill that had halted her, crashing through bushes and bracken along the way.

They came to rest at last, dizzied and tangled, Cob face-down on the bottom of the mess of backpacks and limbs.  He heard her groan and his heart clenched, but then that groan turned into a breathless, ragged laugh, and she squirmed and jabbed him with her elbow until they finally managed to extricate from each other.

“Are you all right?” she said, bending over him as he rolled onto his back—just close enough to get grass in the mouth when he flung it.  With a sound between laughter and fury, she leapt atop him and he was fending her dirty hands from his face when a throat cleared softly nearby.

They looked up to find a strange woman observing them.  A veil covered her features from brow to chin, but the rest of her was unrestricted—her long dark hair unbound, her patterned sarong and blouse flowing loosely around her as she moved closer.  Strings of red clay beads adorned her neck and wrists, and in her arms she carried a woven basket full of fruit.

“Honored visitors,” she said in oddly accented but impeccable Imperial, “it is more proper to enter by the path.”

Cob let go of Fiora immediately, all the blood rushing to his cheeks.  The girl wobbled and planted a hand on his face accidentally, then caught her balance and stood.  Cob struggled up as well.

“Uh, sorry, ma’am,” Cob said, feeling thoroughly foolish.  He traded a glance with Fiora.  They were both covered in bits of grass and flowers and streaks of dirt, their gear torn, hair in disarray, but he could not deny that it had been fun.

By her sneaky grin, she thought so too.

“Uh, we’re here from Turo,” he told the veiled woman, then glanced past her.  They had rolled into a cleft in the landscape; here, the briars thinned around a small, oblong lake, and further down the cleft he saw a cluster of low shapes growing from the sod, irregular and furred over with green yet obviously some kind of dwellings.  A thick stand of fruit-trees shaded them, uncultivated, as if the homestead had been formed around them rather than vice versa.  Other occupants were emerging from the dwellings.

“
You should speak with my husband,” said the veiled woman.

Cob nodded and looked to the approaching others, then flinched reflexively.  They appeared human—men and women with fine plaited hair and ruddy faces, loosely garbed—but there was something wrong with them, and as they drew closer he realized what it was.

Their eyes.  Their skin.  ‘Ruddy’ was not correct.  They looked fevered, their complexions pale as milk with an unsettling red undertone—eyes red-rimmed as if from crying, the irises themselves a deep vermilion, their mouths red, the rims of their nostrils and the edges of their ears and their fingertips the same.  In the light, even their dark hair had a bloody sheen to it.  When their lips parted, Cob expected to see fangs.

But they had normal human teeth, and if they were offended by his reaction, the Haarakash did not show it.  Five had emerged in all: two men and three women, all in sarongs and sandals, the women in blouses and the men in vests.  None bore a weapon or tool, and their clothes blended with the fern and foliage.

One man stepped before the veiled woman like a bodyguard.  He wore thick armbands and bracelets of carved wood, his body muscled in a lean way, his dark hair swept back smoothly.  Pressing his fists together, he bowed to Cob and Fiora and said, “Honored visitors, I am Adram Kemithos, head of this steading.  What brings you from the changing lands to our home this fortunate day?”  Behind him, the other men bowed in the same way; the women pressed their palms together instead.

Cob peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth and said, “I’m Cob, this’s Fiora.  We’ve come from Turo, lookin’ for some help.  We been told that your people know, uh…soul magic.”

“Necromancy,” said Fiora.  “Cob’s possessed.”

Cob shot her a look, but Adram just nodded.  He was closer to Fiora’s height than Cob’s, his face lined but his hair untouched by white, and his expression was nothing but placid.  “You have been told truly, but this is merely my family’s home.  We can not assist you here.  Please allow me to escort you to the hub to consult the Magistrate and the necromancers.”  He bowed again formally.

“Uh, that’s all right, we don’t wanna trouble you,” Cob said.  It felt rude but these people unnerved him.

Adram straightened and shook his head.  “It is no trouble.  I enjoy the task.  We have few opportunities to speak with those from outside.”

Cob traded another glance with Fiora, who nodded sharply.  He looked out at the grassy hills and thorn-hedges and considered the vastness of this place.  It was not a little bubble covering a town.  It was a whole realm of nearly-trackless wilderness, and he had no idea where he was supposed to go.

Reluctantly, he said, “Very well.”

Adram smiled.  “Would you care to refresh yourselves before we go?”

Cob shifted self-consciously, aware of the scratches and dirt-stains, but said, “No.  We’ll be fine.”

“As you say.  Allow me to take my leave.”

Cob watched as the Haarakash man turned to his family, who gave their farewells in a weirdly formal manner, all bowing and murmuring ritualized words.  The veiled woman came last, and Adram broke form long enough to slide his hand beneath the veil to touch her concealed cheek.  Then they bowed their heads too, and she withdrew silently.  Cob made a face; except for that touch, it all seemed creepily impersonal.

Turning back to them, Adram smiled and said, “Shall we?”

Cob gestured for him to lead.

The Haarakash man led them past the moss-shrouded dwellings and out to where the footpath bisected the cleft-like valley.  They turned eastward, where in the distance there still seemed nothing more than shaggy hills and the occasional stand of trees.

“
How far is this hub?” Cob said.

“
Half a day’s walk.”

“
And you can’t jus’…call a necromancer to us, or somethin’?  I thought you folk were magic.”

Adram glanced back, smiling slightly.  “I am not magic.  Nor is anyone in my steading.  We must be old-fashioned and use our feet.”

“But…”  Cob trailed off, frowning.  He had not known what to expect, but certainly it was not this.  The only part of Haaraka that seemed appropriately necromantic was the people, but their clothes were wrong, their behavior was wrong—nothing as threatening as he had expected.  It was almost disappointing to come this far and find that the dreaded Haarakash were polite, over-formal rural folk.

“
So…what’s the hub?” he said as they walked, Fiora at his side.

“
It is the community seat for this section of the realm,” said Adram.  “The Magistrate can summon our High Necromancer, should she be away on business, or refer you to a wide selection of the local junior necromancers if your possession is not so dire.”

“
It’s dire.”

“
Then the High Necromancer will aid you.  Do not be concerned.  We deal with such matters regularly.”

“
I thought you were all possessed,” said Fiora.

Cob shot her a look, not sure how sensitive a subject this was, but the girl shrugged as Adram answered, “Not all.  There are far fewer wraiths imprisoned here than there are mortals to host them.  Our numbers increase with every generation; theirs do not.”

“How does that work?” Cob asked cautiously.  “We’ve heard some stories…”

“
Oh?”

“
That you’re all just wraiths in human skins,” said Fiora.  “Not really humans at all.  But I guess that can’t be true, if there aren’t enough wraiths to go around.  Do you know any?”

“
I know Lliancandrien sa Salanar, who lives inside of me.”

The hairs on the back of Cob’s neck rose.  “You’re a wraith?”

Though Adram did not turn, his smile was obvious in his voice.  “No, honored one, I am not a wraith.  I bear the soul of a wraith in tandem to my own.  Lliancandrien is my advisor, my tutor, through whose eyes I can see memories of the glorious world from which the wraiths fell.  In return, I am the hands, the heart.  Like those before me, I teach Lliancandrien what it is to be mortal.  To love and fear, to have family, children.  To feel compassion for the creatures they once tried to extinguish.”

Cob stared at the back of his head, at the sleek dark hair he could not help but think of as blood-slicked.  “But you’re not a mage?”

“That is not my calling.  Lliancandrien could teach me, but I am not inclined.  I am a craftsman,” he said, extending one arm to rattle his wooden cuffs.  “The Thorn provides our food, our shelter, and so we are left to be dreamers.  Musicians, poets, wanderers.  Haaraka covers the shore from fallen Teshen to the Garnet Mountains, across the sea-caves and islands and open waters there, and up the foothills to the outskirts of the Trivestean Plateau.  It is filled with old ruins—ogrish, elemental, human, all the land the Thorn consumed as it expanded its territory.  Many of us simply travel, explore.  There is always more to see.”

“
Jus’ peacefully tour around?  Your folk don’t ever fight?”

“
No, not often.”

“
Not even the white wraiths and the grey wraiths?”

Adram sighed.  “The Thorn Protector does not like conflict, but yes, there is some residual anger between the haelhene and airahene souls.  It is our purpose to contain that hatred, to transfer that passion into something more productive.  Our ancestors were drawn here by their suffering—to soothe it, mend it—and we have come far in these many generations, but most of us live apart from the hubs so that our wraiths do not conflict with the wraiths of others.  Some seek out such confrontations in the hope of putting grudges to rest, but they are rare.”

“And the necromancers, they’re mostly haelhene?” Cob guessed.

“
In the beginning, yes.  But no longer.  Our wraiths do not control us, they simply aid and influence us.  If we do not wish to follow the paths of magic, they can not force us.  There are more unhosts practicing the art now than hosts.”

Cob nodded slowly.  That, more than anything, helped soothe his nerves, but he reminded himself not to accept it unquestioningly.  Just because they weren’t wraith-controlled did not mean they would not turn on him of their own volition.

“And…do your folk still fight with the spirits?” he said.

Adram shook his head.  “The Thorn Protector does not permit such conflict.  It is one of them.  But I imagine your concern is due to your own possession.  It is a beast-spirit?”

“More or less.”

“
If the Magistrate thinks that it will be a problem, he will advise us.  The High Necromancer is very tolerant, though.  I would not worry.”

Easy for you to say.
  Cob peered into the bushes that they passed, looking for a sign of the red vines the Thorn wraith had become in his vision, but nothing caught his eye.  After a while, he realized that Fiora had come closer and was trying to get his attention with hand-gestures; when he glanced at her, she pointed her thumb toward their backtrail, and Cob slowed to let Adram get ahead.

“
So what do you think?” she said in a low voice.

Cob shrugged, watching Adram’s back.  “Dunno.  This what you expected?”

“I thought it’d be more wraithy.  Like in the forest.  All glowy and with people in robes, not skirts.”

“
It’s not a skirt.  Men wear those in the south.  Padrastans and such.”

“
Oh.  Maybe it’s too hot for breeches,” Fiora said.  “If it’s like this in the winter, it must be scorching in summer.  Speaking of, can you hold this?”  She shrugged out of her rucksack and offered it to him.

With a grunt, Cob slung it over one shoulder and tried not to watch sidelong as Fiora unbuckled her swordbelt and squirmed out of her borrowed over-dress.  Her curly ponytail bobbed as she pulled free.  Underneath, she wore a loose red blouse with a notched neckline and grey leggings; she had left the chainmail and shield in Turo.  He handed the rucksack back and she crammed the dress away, then rebuckled her belt.

“It really is warm here,” she said.  “I wonder why they don’t let the Turo folk come in for the winter.”

“
Because if they wintered here, they would not be able to leave,” said Adram.  Cob grimaced; apparently he had sharp ears.  “It is a side-effect of the curse,” the man continued.  “The Thorn only intentionally captures the souls of wraiths, but its essence is so strong that those who stay in this realm for too long are infused with it.  They become Haarakash and can no longer stray far, lest they weaken and die.”