Read Online The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) by H. Anthe Davis - Free Book Online
Authors: H. Anthe Davis
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”
Lines of cold fire raced across him, and he flinched and tried to lift his head, but the Mother Matriarch pressed him back down. Still he felt them everywhere, stitched through his skin and innards like spiderwebs, and saw their blue-white radiance from the corners of his eyes. Around him, the candles dimmed, as did the torch, and even the heat of the etchings under his back dampened. Above, the bronze circle kindled with an eerie orange glow.
The Mother Matriarch frowned, her blind eyes tracing the lines. “Necromancy, yes,” she said, “but not the simple kind. Your soul has been altered. These superficial bonds are not the problem.”
“ Altered?” said Cob, his mouth dry.
“ He who did this has molded you into a shape that would bind you to any spirit that entered. It is as if you are made up of thousands of fishhooks, all of them locked into the essence of your riders. They can not escape without tearing themselves—or you—apart. As for the bonds, they appear to keep the riders from struggling or communicating much.”
Cob thought of his punishing headaches when the Guardian took over, and wondered if that was his soul being slowly shredded. “Can you fix it?”
The Mother Matriarch sighed. “The bonds, perhaps, but our way is not delicate, and I do not wish to harm you. And we have no power over the shape of your soul.”
Closing his eyes, Cob weighed the options. If removing the bonds would not free the Guardian but give it the power to tear him apart with its thrashing…
But it could speak to me. It could guide me with something other than dreams and hallucinations. And my father…
My father wouldn’t let it kill me.
“I’m not scared of pain,” he said. “Do what you can.”
The Mother Matriarch smiled ruefully and stroked his brow, making him blush despite the situation. “You are a brave young man. A good vessel for Aesangat.” Then she turned her empty gaze to Sister Talla and said, “Proceed.”
Sister Talla nodded and curled her gauntleted hands into fists, one over his heart and the other above the first. “In the name of Brancir Sufrece Etracine, Matron of Judgment, Hammer of the Faith, I invoke my verdict upon this vessel. May he be freed of all bonds and chains inflicted upon him by the work of magic. Sei-aenka Uvadha, ahranxan .”
“ Sei-aenka Uvadha, ahranxan ,” echoed the crowd. As the words faded, Cob realized that only some of them had spoken; the others were harmonizing with the low hum that had begun after the first echo, and now a third note joined the first two. The air seemed to shiver with their voices, male and female, young and old, impeccably disciplined to the task.
Sister Talla raised one fist toward the ceiling and the silver circle flared, joining its glow to the others. Its etching burned beneath him, and the hammer’s weight anchored his left hand to the stone. His eyes followed the torch as the Mother Matriarch lifted it high, its flame flickering at the junction of the circles, and all at once the voices of the crowd rose in a wave.
Then Sister Talla brought her fist down upon the other, slamming hard over Cob’s heart.
Stopping it—
—a sense of falling—
— blackness, stillness—
There was no sound. No sensation, not even pain. No thought, no fear, no sight but for the torch-flame and the circles which in the darkness had become wheels, turning, burning above and beneath him. Awake now. Aware.
Something struck through the darkness, and blue light flashed in an intricate web around his insensate self, a single thread glowing red where his slave-brand would be. First one strike, then two, like a hammer pounding metal, sending ripples of damage through the layered bonds.
Three, and a blue strand fractured. Something flexed in the darkness—below him, within him, it was impossible to say.
Four. Five.
Blue strands frayed. Some snapped.
Six. The flame above grew
Lines of cold fire raced across him, and he flinched and tried to lift his head, but the Mother Matriarch pressed him back down. Still he felt them everywhere, stitched through his skin and innards like spiderwebs, and saw their blue-white radiance from the corners of his eyes. Around him, the candles dimmed, as did the torch, and even the heat of the etchings under his back dampened. Above, the bronze circle kindled with an eerie orange glow.
The Mother Matriarch frowned, her blind eyes tracing the lines. “Necromancy, yes,” she said, “but not the simple kind. Your soul has been altered. These superficial bonds are not the problem.”
“ Altered?” said Cob, his mouth dry.
“ He who did this has molded you into a shape that would bind you to any spirit that entered. It is as if you are made up of thousands of fishhooks, all of them locked into the essence of your riders. They can not escape without tearing themselves—or you—apart. As for the bonds, they appear to keep the riders from struggling or communicating much.”
Cob thought of his punishing headaches when the Guardian took over, and wondered if that was his soul being slowly shredded. “Can you fix it?”
The Mother Matriarch sighed. “The bonds, perhaps, but our way is not delicate, and I do not wish to harm you. And we have no power over the shape of your soul.”
Closing his eyes, Cob weighed the options. If removing the bonds would not free the Guardian but give it the power to tear him apart with its thrashing…
But it could speak to me. It could guide me with something other than dreams and hallucinations. And my father…
My father wouldn’t let it kill me.
“I’m not scared of pain,” he said. “Do what you can.”
The Mother Matriarch smiled ruefully and stroked his brow, making him blush despite the situation. “You are a brave young man. A good vessel for Aesangat.” Then she turned her empty gaze to Sister Talla and said, “Proceed.”
Sister Talla nodded and curled her gauntleted hands into fists, one over his heart and the other above the first. “In the name of Brancir Sufrece Etracine, Matron of Judgment, Hammer of the Faith, I invoke my verdict upon this vessel. May he be freed of all bonds and chains inflicted upon him by the work of magic. Sei-aenka Uvadha, ahranxan .”
“ Sei-aenka Uvadha, ahranxan ,” echoed the crowd. As the words faded, Cob realized that only some of them had spoken; the others were harmonizing with the low hum that had begun after the first echo, and now a third note joined the first two. The air seemed to shiver with their voices, male and female, young and old, impeccably disciplined to the task.
Sister Talla raised one fist toward the ceiling and the silver circle flared, joining its glow to the others. Its etching burned beneath him, and the hammer’s weight anchored his left hand to the stone. His eyes followed the torch as the Mother Matriarch lifted it high, its flame flickering at the junction of the circles, and all at once the voices of the crowd rose in a wave.
Then Sister Talla brought her fist down upon the other, slamming hard over Cob’s heart.
Stopping it—
—a sense of falling—
— blackness, stillness—
There was no sound. No sensation, not even pain. No thought, no fear, no sight but for the torch-flame and the circles which in the darkness had become wheels, turning, burning above and beneath him. Awake now. Aware.
Something struck through the darkness, and blue light flashed in an intricate web around his insensate self, a single thread glowing red where his slave-brand would be. First one strike, then two, like a hammer pounding metal, sending ripples of damage through the layered bonds.
Three, and a blue strand fractured. Something flexed in the darkness—below him, within him, it was impossible to say.
Four. Five.
Blue strands frayed. Some snapped.
Six. The flame above grew
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