The Broken Realm

by Sarah M. Cradit

  But he was no closer to understanding magic at all. The Rhiagains had tried to bottle the mystique of the Guardians, creating a church and a clergy to organize it, but that was antithetical to who the Guardians were, and what role they played. Most serving the Reliquary knew this, too, even if they feared saying so.

  Still, there was something about being in the place where magic was celebrated and studied that made Wyat’s heart race in a new, exciting way. Even if he was only allowed in a room at the base that reeked of hay and shit.

  “I have read in your mind that you are prepared to give me a story that is not your own, Scholar Edevane,” Head Magus Tymagen said. He twisted in the hard chair; it was clearly not what he was used to in his tower office. “I implore you to remember where you are before you do so.”

  Wyat dropped his eyes. Shame bloomed in his cheeks. “I require asylum, but what I ask is no simple matter, Head Magus.”

  “No indeed. My seers know you travel with a woman and child. She is not your sister, for your notation in The Book indicates you are an only child, nor can a scholar take a bride. Mistress, then?”

  Wyat didn’t answer.

  “Scholar Edevane, you would not be seeking asylum if you or your traveling companions were not in some danger. You’re a man of the clergy. You have nothing to fear, not even from us. So it must be the woman or child who this is for.”

  “Both.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “It is for both of them.”

  “Then you will tell me who they are.”

  “My apologies, Head Magus, but I cannot.”

  The Head Magus stood. “Then I cannot help you.”

  “Please.” Wyat jumped to his feet as well. “I beg of you. I have nowhere else I can take them.”

  “Nowhere else? In all the kingdom?”

  Wyat shook his head. “If I told you, it would place them in even deeper danger. This is bigger than you, or me, or the institutions we serve.”

  “Do you know the oath I’ve sworn?” Head Magus Tymagen waited for Wyat to nod before continuing. “As part of my oath as Head Magus, I am obligated to protect not only the bodies but also the secrets of any seeking sanctuary within the Sepulchre. Whatever you tell me, I cannot tell another.”

  “It isn’t my secret to tell.”

  “Should we bring them in, so they can tell me themselves?”

  “No,” Wyat said quickly. “They need their rest. They’ve been through enough.”

  “The terms of my offer to extend asylum are what I’ve said they are.” Head Magus Tymagen tried to smile. “Whatever it is they’ve done, it cannot truly be that bad, can it?”

  “It’s not what they’ve done, Head Magus. It’s who they are.”

  The Head Magus laid a hand upon Wyat’s shoulder. “When we accept an asylum seeker, it must be done with a heart laid bare of secrets. Not because we are fishwives looking for gossip, but because we need to be fully aware of what threats may land upon our doorstep, should it come to that. You can trust that we will defend them if they become our protected guests.”

  Wyat closed his eyes and sighed. There was no other way. No other escape. The Sepulchre was the only place in the kingdom where the king’s jurisdiction did not extend, save the Hinterlands, and they would not be welcomed there. “The woman I travel with is Anabella Weatherford Rhiagain, and her son is Stefan Rhiagain. Prince Darrick’s wife and son.”

  Head Magus Tymagen took a step back. “Darrick Rhiagain was never married, Scholar Edevane.”

  “I married them myself, under a cherry tree in the Wintergarden of Wulfsgate. Not long before he was murdered.”

  “I don’t understand. If Prince Darrick was married, then why was no one told? Where have the wife and child been all these years?”

  “They were prisoners of Eoghan Rhiagain,” Wyat answered. “And will be prisoners again if he discovers where they’ve gone.” He pointed toward the other room, where Anabella and Stefan rested. “In there is the true heir to this kingdom, Head Magus. Stefan Rhiagain is our rightful king.”

  “Some of my seers believe Darrick himself is not dead,” Head Magus Tymagen said.

  Wyat said nothing.

  “So it is true, then. What they’ve seen. And if my seers have seen it, then you can be sure the Rhiagain sorcerers have.” He nodded toward the door. “As they will eventually see who you’ve brought to our doorstep.”

  “There are fewer Magi among the Rhiagain than there are here,” Wyat countered. “There are only four sorcerers, but there are thousands of you.”

  “Do you know there are Rhiagains in the Sepulchre?”

  Wyat gaped at him. “What? Here? Why?”

  “They fall under the same laws as others in the kingdom, where magic is concerned, though you can imagine not all hold themselves to that, and most practice it outside the law with no consequence. Some have come here, though. Spies, as you can imagine.”

  “Why allow it?”

  “Refuse and draw their ire? Their eye upon us? Scholar Edevane, without offense, we do not want to become like the Reliquary, beholden to the crown. We are independent of everyone and everything, and we serve all, not a king alone. Anyway, it is better for us that we know who and what they are, then it is for them to find more subversive ways to spy on us.”

  “The enemy you know,” Wyat mused. “Do they possess magic? Or is that part of their ruse to draw eyes upon you?”

  “Rhiagains have married into this kingdom for many years. Women and men of no consequence, they say, but even simple farmers can possess magic within them. For all their mystique, I am not aware of the Rhiagain blood itself having even a drop of magic.”

  “I see.”

  “I told you your secret would be safe, and it will be. What I know will die with me when at last my promise is spent. But what you have brought to us puts me in a situation I’ve never been faced with before. I let you stay, and I bring the eye of the Rhiagains upon us when either their Adherents within or their sorcerers on the outside learn who lives within our walls. Or I tell you that you cannot and I violate our most inviolate law.”

  “I understand the difficulty I’ve brought upon you,” Wyat replied. “But some things are bigger than our faith, or our magic. Some things are bigger than us all.”

  “Yes,” Head Magus Tymagen said. “You can stay for now. We’ll move you into the tower, to keep the mother and child safe. But in return, you must be thinking of your next move, Scholar Edevane. There is no longevity in hiding them here forever, not for our sake or theirs. If you didn’t have a plan before your arrival, it’s time to make one.”

  * * *

  Anabella didn’t need to hear the words said on the other side of the door to understand what was happening. Wyat was desperate. The Head Magus was scared. She blamed neither of them for feeling either thing.

  She was scared and desperate, too.

  Before, she’d struggled to even imagine what life would be like beyond the sky dungeon. She hadn’t dared even think it, for she knew hope would kill her faster than thirst, quicker than starvation. All these weeks since the escape, she’d failed to land on how she felt to be free, because she wasn’t really free, and neither was Stefan. She was beginning to accept they might never be.

  “Mama?”

  Anabella had been mindlessly brushing his hair off his face when Stefan spoke up. She paused her ministrations. “Yes, darling?”

  “When are we going home?”

  “You mean the cave?”

  “I miss my sticks. And I want to see the ships again.”

  Anabella’s heart dropped. She’d never considered that he might long for the only home he’d ever known; that he might, even, have been happy. “We can’t go back there, darling. It’s not safe for us.”

  “Why? Did the tower fall down?”

  “It’s hard to explain, Stefan. When you’re older, you’ll understand.”

  Stefan frowned. His bleary eyes regarded her with confused innocence. “I don’t like it her
e. I want to go home.”

  Anabella leaned in, pressing her lips to his forehead. “These are good people. Honest people. They’ll take care of us. And when the time is right, we’ll go home, darling. I promise.”

  “You said we can’t go back.”

  “Not there,” Anabella said. An idea came to her, suddenly. The Sepulchre sat at the eastern coast of the White Sea. Perhaps there were ships there. She would ask Wyat. It would be all right. Stefan would learn to love real toys, and not the makeshift ones he’d created in their cell. He’d begin to appreciate the fresh air, and what it was like to run more than a few meters. He’d, perhaps, even find friends.

  “Where, Mama?”

  But though she’d soothe him, love him, ease him through this, she would not lie to him. “I don’t know, darling. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

  * * *

  Jesse drew another hard swallow of the ale. He usually preferred something weaker, but he’d asked Kaslan for the worst of what he had, the kind of swill that would make a man’s teeth fall out, he drank enough of it. Kaslan had smiled his knowing smile, all but winking as he passed the tankard. But this had nothing to do with what had happened with Ravenna. Nothing at all, though she might be the one person he could talk to about it; the only one who might understand if he tried to put word to experience. Joran might, too, but Jesse didn’t trust the old fool.

  For all he knew, one or both of them was behind it.

  The strangeness, as he’d come to calling it, just over a week ago, when he’d abruptly awakened in the middle of the night and was pulled straightaway into the sensation that something significant had changed. Within him. Beyond him. There was nothing precise about the feeling, nothing that would help him to understand it. He’d tried to go back to sleep, but the tingling in his fingers and toes made relaxation a faraway dream. He finally passed out from exhaustion just as the sun was rising.

  On the second tick of the sun, he had no choice but to make himself wake and face the day. In his fatigue, he tripped coming down the stairs, but instead of falling outright, he’d floated down, landing neatly on his feet at the bottom. He’d looked around to see if anyone else was there and had seen it, but he was alone. This is why men need sleep, he’d thought, assuring himself none of it had happened, and tried to put it behind him.

  The day after, he’d ridden into town and come upon a stray ass reared and ready to drop down on little Brook, who’d been sent to pick berries. Brook was splayed against the road, his pail off in a ditch, as he gaped up in horror. Jesse, heart racing in his chest, was too far away to intervene. He screamed at Brook to move, but Brook was frozen in his fear, yet before the moment could switch to a new one, one where Brook was gravely injured, a pause fell over it all. The ass’ legs hovered in midair, suspended in time. Brook gaped, blinking, at the sudden halt in his fate. And Jesse... Jesse knew he’d caused it somehow. That it had something to do with the night before, just as his incident on the stairs did.

  “Go!” Jesse yelled, and this time Brook did roll away. Once he was free of the danger, the ass’ hooves dropped to the ground. The beast looked only slightly dazed as it ambled off into the field, its quarrel with the boy forgotten.

  And though he was now on his third mug of ale, it wasn’t Kaslan who’d refilled it. No one had. It had refilled itself.

  Jesse decided the most plausible explanation was that he’d lost his mind.

  Kaslan dropped into the chair across from him, breathless. “A scout just returned. We’re expecting more visitors within the hour.”

  “Good. If your father intends to lead a war, you’ll need more men,” Jesse muttered. He’d not spoken to Easlan since their disagreement. Both men averted their eyes when they passed at the Mule.

  Kaslan leaned in. “Jesse. It’s Lord Warwick we’re expecting.”

  Jesse jerked his head up. “What? What did you say?”

  “With two of his top men. Rutland and Law. You know ’em?”

  “Of course I know them,” Jesse said, but he could hardly look at Kaslan now. The spots forming behind his eyes burned hot, and the tingling in his fingers and toes was back.

  “Another man, too, though they didn’t give a name. Not a steward, anyway.”

  “What are they doing, coming here?”

  “Come to help, scout says. It’s all I know. But, Jesse...”

  Jesse nodded. “I know.” He pushed away from the table. “I have to get back to the keep. Esmerelda isnae safe. I donnae know where to take her from here. I hadn’t given it enough thought. I never expected...”

  Kaslan whistled through his teeth. “Well, we could put Warwick and his men up in the abbey. It’s smaller than the keep, but nicer. Father uses it for hunts, for when his mates come down. I know what you’re thinking, our forests aren’t the Whitewood, but we’ve beasts none else have.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

  “You’re thinking of leaving.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “She’s still safe at Dungarde Keep. No one has business there but you.”

  “How? Even if you put them up at the abbey, as you say, there’s nothing keeping him from venturing up to the keep, is there? At least the other men here have never seen Esmerelda in the flesh before. But a man will know his own daughter, Kaslan.”

  Kaslan’s head moved to the side, to look past Jesse. He started to slowly stand. “I hope you weren’t planning to keep yourself hidden as well, for they’re here.”

  Jesse turned right as the door opened. Khallum, Law, and Rutland walked in with a fourth man, flanked by some Westerland men that he recognized but didn’t know their names. The Southerland men had the damp humors of those who had been on the road a spell, both in appearance and stink, though Khallum looked ready to start a war himself from the fire in his eyes.

  “At least your father isn’t among them,” Kaslan whispered and then went to join Easlan in welcoming them.

  Jesse watched in a daze as Khallum and Easlan exchanged embraces, as the men, nervous, laughing, unsure, measured each other’s intentions. He couldn’t believe Lord Warwick was here. The one place in all the kingdom where Jesse had thought he could tuck Esmerelda safely away was the one place he chose to come to. He didn’t believe in fate, but this was the sort of thing that might just change his mind.

  “Is that Jesse Strong?” Khallum’s booming voice carried across the half-full tavern.

  So much for slipping away. Jesse drained the tankard and, wiping his arm across his mouth, went to meet him.

  “Aye, it is!” Khallum was grinning, but the suspicion in his eyes was as clear as the skies outside. He watched Jesse carefully as he draped an arm over him in a haphazard embrace. “This wasnae a surprise I expected at the end of our journey.”

  “Indeed,” Law chimed in. “And I’ll ken Hamish doesn’t know his son is here, either, or he would’ve made mention of it.”

  Jesse looked back and forth between his lord and his lord’s top man. He should say something, but what?

  Easlan broke the uneasy tension. “Lord Warwick, if you please, Kaslan and I will get Law and Rutland settled in while you catch up with young Strong.”

  Khallum nodded. He seemed to barely hear him. “Aye. We’ve some catching up to do.” The seconds ticked into immeasurably long moments as Khallum, eyes fixed on Jesse’s, waited for the men to leave them.

  “Want some ale?” Jesse asked. One of his hands started to tremble. He shoved it into his vest.

  “Aye. None of the shit James serves to travelers, either.”

  Jesse smiled through his nerves. He turned, eager to be free of Khallum’s intense gaze even for a moment. He regained his breathing as he slipped behind the bar and poured two fresh tankards. Khallum accepted both and moved to a nearby table.

  Khallum had emptied his before Jesse could sit down. He shoved it aside with a belch. “I ken you’re a long way from Rushwood, where ye told yer father you’d be.”

  Jesse nodded. H
e didn’t dare touch his own ale. He was afraid it might refill itself again, and that would be one more thing he’d struggle to explain to the lord of his land.

  “Nor is Greystone Abbey a waypoint on the return to Sandycove, unless you’ve made an enemy of the Guardians, or have never acquainted yourself with a map.”

  “No, Lord Warwick,” Jesse said.

  “But a Strong man? He knows his maps, I ken. He knows them better than any.”

  Jesse sighed and looked down. He had always appreciated a simple life, and a lie was the perfect disruption to that. It would complicate everything, from now until a time indeterminate. But he had no choice. The last few months of his life had been one long fabrication, and he’d never shake it off, no matter where the days ahead took him. “It wasnae my intention to mislead my father, Lord Warwick. I knew he wouldn’t understand why I came to the aid of the Westerlands.”

  Khallum leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms. “Nay, nor can I. What care have you of the fate of the Western Reach?”

  “It isnae so much that as my care for the men within,” Jesse said carefully. “Easlan and Kaslan James are friends of my father, as they are yours. And they were the only men beyond the Southerlands who offered to send aid when you called for it.”

  “Aye, and a lot of good that was, all five of ’em,” Khallum muttered, but some of the suspicion had faded away. “You’re wrong about your father, I ken. He’d understand. I’ve never met a man more loyal than Hamish Strong. Loyal to a fault at times.”

  Jesse raised his tankard to that, but put it back on the table, untouched.

  “What scrapes me, Jesse, is why you would leave when you did, knowin’ what you did. About your brother, and what he was after.”

  “I expected I’d be back before he was out.” Jesse held his breath. A heavy realization fell over him. Khallum might have news of Ryan, and with these words, he’d all but asked for it.