Rift Between Lands (The Trida Series Book 1)

by J. Gertori

  Emer shifted atop his lifted platform. “Thank you for your question. I’ve found seven instances of ‘Obsolete Offering.’ The latest entry dates back to the nineteenth century. Would you like me to read each entry, Sir?”

  Sam spun to assess his guides; both seemed anxious to explore Summer Spectacle, and since arriving, a crowd of eager, young students had filed behind to ask questions of their own. “No thanks, Emer—just tell me what it is.”

  “Very well. Obsolete Offering was a necessary component of counter curses in the decades following the Edmond Lekly era. It is blood from the person the counter curse is meant for.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “Appreciate it, Emer. Sweet cape!” Along with Agilan and Derby, he exited the doors in haste, repeating the information like a chant.

  Buses and bike campers filled the lot beyond the lawn of Sterny Library, but the trio was a man short. Sam shared a glance with Derby, whose cheeks were peppered red. They retraced their steps to find Agilan at the entrance to a Lixferg park.

  “You alright?” said Derby. She followed Agilan’s gaze, and a sparkle rushed through her hair. “Wow!”

  Sam squeezed beside them and saw the crowd of park-goers. “Holy—is that—no, it can’t be. Is that Harrison Kaldweld? The best actor award winner three years in a row—that Harrison Kaldweld—is a wizard?”

  “Pshh, that guy isn’t even a pact,” said Derby. “He’s been in Trida a couple of days now. I heard his philanthropy got him an invite. But you say he’s an actor?”

  Agilan stood frozen, mouth agape like he stared at the Holy Grail itself. The crowd partook in a shared meal, yet nobody seemed to pay the actor any mind. “That Kaldweld guy was brought in by the real star here,” mumbled Agilan. He guided his shaky finger at a man scooping food to be distributed among the line of people.

  The lanky man had deep brown complexion identical to Agilan’s. Unlike the khaki suits of the professors, his was the same dark green as the Lixferg uniform. A dense black beard and a crown-like turban of goldenrod completed his stunning silhouette.

  “That’s Zubair Singh—Lixferg’s pride alumni, and jack of all trades worth a damn. He’s a philanthropist as well, and also a Grand Mage. I’ve never seen him on campus before.”

  Derby chimed in: “Some pacts want to enroll in universities. Would that interest you, Sam?”

  “Well . . . of course.”

  “Then, Zubair Singh is who you’d thank if it ever happened. He’s at the forefront of the movement—a wizard—and if anyone can pull it off, it’s him.”

  He gave Zubair a long glance. It was easy to see why Derby and Agilan had such fondness for the man. Sam learned these meal services were free, and done at Zubair’s expense. He thought it necessary to feed anyone in need of nourishment. The man inspired smiles as he sat on the grass to dine among fellow wizards of all species.

  Agilan spent the next couple of minutes bombarding Sam with facts about his idol and fellow Indian. “Zubair will be the next Artifec—Lixferg’s first—bank on it.”

  “If you’re right, I’ll do all of your finals,” said Derby. She turned to face Sam who’d since forgotten the presence of a famed actor. “Then again, Artifec inheritance hardly ever changes families. A handful of schools can say they’ve fostered one of the seven most powerful wizards. Von Percy Institute claimed Sirs Gilbeaux and Molting. Eenie Alchemy School had Sir Gaspare, while Lady Oxnora’s from Furrowdale University. And Octavius Institute spawned Lady Eriksson, Lady Abifa, and Sir Capullum.

  “So chances are we’d be alumnus ourselves by then. I can see it now—Head of House Linderby Ploberger. And Agilan Reddy—remind me again of your new major.”

  “Species Relations.”

  “Agilan Reddy, species affairs officer. Not as catchy on the tongue.”

  “I’d bet Zubair becomes the Artifec of healing,” said Agilan.

  Sam received a staunch reminder why he’d arrived at Lixferg in the first place. “Why do you think that?”

  “Sir Gaspare doesn’t involve himself with Trida dealings, aside from signing off on elixirs. He’s also ancient. But most damning: he doesn’t have kids.”

  “Can you blame him?” Derby said. “His future was written for him—no choice but to study medicine. I can’t imagine he’d want to continue the trend by hijacking his kid’s future. He might be relieved when the Artifec title is stripped from him.”

  “He’ll always have the hudgers though!” said Agilan, laughing.

  “I thought we’d have a new Artifec when the committee sent Lady Abifa away,” said Derby. The trio moved away from the entrance as students were scowling behind them.

  Sam lurched beside his guides, hungry for answers. “Why’d she get exiled?”

  “It started when she taught at Octavius—”

  “Wonder if they called her Professor Lady Abifa or Lady Professor Abifa,” Derby said.

  “Lady Abifa had a fling with a third-year student, severe enough for the Octavius Council to fire her. She spewed these wild ideologies and inspired Sir Capullum, the Artifec of elements, to preach against restricted magic. Sir Capullum grew a cult following.”

  “They call themselves the Children of Edmond; they believe in no-holds-barred spells, hexes, and curses. My Aromatics professor says they all should spend time with the Persolus therapists,” mumbled Derby.

  “I mean, I’d like to conjure a rifting chair made of chocolate as much as the next guy, but free magic is banned for a reason. Wait—the chair’s a bad exa—”

  “A rifting chair? Really?” said Derby.

  “Made of chocolate. Don’t forget that,” whispered Sam.

  “Of all the things you could summon, you’d have a chocolate chair that rifts you places?”

  Agilan shoved Derby. “My point is: the committees, here and on Wulf, have the greater good in mind. So when Sir Capullum’s rallies manifested into a rogue market, they knew they needed to take control. Aside from death, you can’t punish a wizard any further than sending them outside of Trida, where our magic is nonexistent. Crazy enough, they banished Lady Abifa and not Sir Capullum, probably because of his ties to the community.”

  “Pshh, you mean the rogue community. But good riddance to the Artifec of souls. Outside of the Children of Edmond, she won’t be missed,” said Derby.

  A screeching bell rang through the quad: the last call to board the buses.

  The trio hustled toward the magical vehicles. “That’s the bus you need to take,” shouted Agilan. He pointed toward a thin double decker with green-and-yellow paint. “Slight problem: only students can pass the transit monitor.”

  “You couldn’t think of a more opportune moment to tell me this?” Sam said, huffing to keep pace with the wizards.

  “No worries—we’ll get you there!” blurted Derby, unveiling a white wand with bulbous markers. The trio hid behind a stone wall.

  “You guys aren’t gonna get busted for this, will you?” said Sam.

  “Maybe. But just in case, we’d better add some educational value,” Agilan said. He unveiled his black wand. “How about a Socius exercise? You need the practice.”

  “You’re on,” Derby said. She snapped her wand straight and targeted the transit monitor. “Benivolen!”

  The leaves of the nearby tree wiggled, and a clan of squirrels came racing down its thick trunk. They maneuvered around the moving vehicles and collected at the transit monitor’s feet before climbing his legs and nuzzling into his every crevice. For a moment, the man looked as if he wore a furry suit.

  “Very cute. But let me show you how it’s done.” Agilan readied his wand. “Malivolen!”

  Suddenly, the squirrels atop the man’s shoulder looked frantic. They jumped into his arms and yanked at his clipboard. All at once, the gang of squirrels sprang from the man. They stole his tools and all the objects in his pockets. He screamed out, sprinting after the squirrels who fought over his wand, while the rest scurried back to their tree.

  “Show off,” mumb
led Derby.

  As they raced toward the double-decker bus, Agilan shouted, “You should see the signs for Ree Bridge, but get off at the seventh stop.” He gave Sam a gentle push toward the bus.

  The fleshling jumped aboard its ledge, hugging a golden pole as the bus gained speed. The rumbling became so loud Sam couldn’t hear his panting.

  Derby screamed at the top of her lungs, “Remember to get off at stop—”

  FOURTEEN

  The Reporter

  “Seven,” mumbled Sam. By his count, he had reached the Ree Bridge. As he stood to exit, the majority of the bus did the same. When the passengers had dismounted, and all movement had stopped, the double-decker rolled sideways and sped away. Unfortunately, this new location looked as much like a bridge as Lixferg.

  Its dark walls were wet with fuzzy plants growing on its stones, and upon entering, visitors were veered downward through a wide stairway. The interior had no ornate pillars or lavish lounge furniture. But where it lacked in embellishments and comfort, it redeemed with mystery and allure. A museum with placards, relics, and busts of the seven Artifecs filled the lower level. Gaspare’s sculpture had a layer of dust on his carved hair, while the newest looked to be Lady Isla Eriksson, whose statue rested beside another woman; their name had been scratched off.

  Despite the exhibit’s size, Sam remained confused as to where the bridge could be. If there were any other doors or halls, he’d ask for directions. Alas, the final stop on the route led to the second set of stairs that lowered into a glass chamber. Upon noticing this section was submerged in water, Sam’s mouth went dry, and each step made him woozier. It didn’t help that the floor, too, was glass.

  One of the students brandishing his wand and snickered as he tapped on the glass. A group of small fish congregated nearby. Before anything could develop, a bald man by the stairs said, “Please step away from the glass.” He proceeded to the front and tucked his shirt, which had an emblem of an octopus on the sleeve.

  “We welcome you all to Ree waters. Regretfully, I ask that everyone exit the building with me. Because of the events in Okra, the bridge is limited to prior appointment only.” The students and their professor groaned. “Not to worry, we’ve ordered the buses back, and have arranged for your trip to continue at Cedric Doubleday’s sacutus farm.” The replies were split between cheers and the second wave of groans. “Mr. Doubleday assures us his sacutuses will behave themselves. So, no, we will not be stopping for elixirs along the way. Clear? Good! Get moving.”

  Sam slipped from the worker’s view with ease: a student at the front had enlarged her friend’s backpack, and she went on a wrecking spree, dropping several signs and tumbling a row of men like bowling pins. With the diversion in place, Sam backpedaled on the stairs. But as the crowd cleared, he saw a tall figure draped in a velvety robe.

  “Mr. Gaspare!” Sam shouted, still on the steps.

  “Where?” said a man behind.

  Sam’s shoulders shot to his ears. Unbeknownst to him, a sharp-dressed patron remained in the glass chamber. When Sam returned his attention to the robed figure, they were as gone as the Lixferg students.

  “You saw Sir Gaspare?” said the dapper man in the chamber. “Hey, I know you.”

  “I doubt that,” said Sam, reentering the room. A warmth filled his cheeks, for Sam knew a pair of piercing eyes were ogling him. His mind raced about how public the news of the fugitive fleshling had become. Crissa’s partner had analyzed a photo of him, that much he knew. Did the mages go public with Sam’s image? And if so, was if before or after the drama of his red nose? Hoping not to be recognized further, Sam spun away.

  “Look over here,” said the man. Sam complied out of reflex. “Foto.” The man outlined Sam’s face with his feathered wand, and bright magenta hovered in the air. “Compare.”

  “Hey!” Sam attempted to grab the wand, but it retracted into the sleeve of the man’s red suit jacket. A second photo burst from the notebook strapped to his hip, and it twirled into his hand.

  “I knew it! You’re in my photos.” He flaunted a picture of Sam in the hospital hallway. “Wanna know something funny? Right after I took this shot, it started raining pebbles.”

  “I was there,” said Sam, pointing at the picture in the man’s hand.

  “Even funnier: all the reporters were kicked out because of it.” He laughed as he followed Sam through the dark room. “But the funniest part is that I didn’t see you escorted out.” He unveiled a flimsy picture of the reporters crowded outside the hospital.

  Sam sensed he wouldn’t get rid of the man easily. “Either you have a sad sense of humor, or you’re horrible at making friends.”

  The man’s smile ceased. “Who’s your editor-in-chief? You obviously have the scoop. Granted, you did cheat. But you edged out the competition yesterday, and I can respect that. I’ll buy your leads.”

  Sam trembled as an mammoth seahorse swam along the glass.

  “Stop me when I get it right—Octavius Daily, Trida Times, Lekly Journal,” the man said, “Upper Lekly Tribune, Fulvus Pages, Kerek Herald?”

  Sam didn’t entertain the man.

  “Okay, good. You’re a small-town writer, then. We’ll do a joint article. Your editor-in-chief is Thurman, isn’t it?” The dapper fellow crossed his arms, inspecting Sam from head to toe. “Don’t tell me you’re one of Giddlerod’s guys. You don’t look the part. Then again, Massimo’s a sneaky bastard. He’d trade his Labrador for a lead, but damn it does he get results. Ha! Giddlerod Gazette’s on my tail. I love the competition!”

  The exhaustion from both the dapper fellow and the sights beyond the glass had depleted Sam. He twisted his pocketed rogue wand. Would anyone notice a mouthless man? He thought.

  “I have a lead. You have a lead. Let’s collaborate.”

  “What ‘lead’ are you talking about?” said Sam.

  “Might be the same as yours. Apparently, we both have appointments into Okra.” The man removed his lensless glasses and beanie and brushed through his dense head of locks.

  Sam peeked above the stairs and found no other patrons. “You first.”

  “Yes!” blurted the man. “You might’ve read my report last week: The Okra Hunt.” He waited for Sam’s praise. “About the crazy slayings of Athens chameleons.” Sam shrugged. “Oh, c’mon! It was on the front page of our newspaper. You had to have at least heard of it.” His shoulders slumped, and he sighed. “I’m Ellis Tattersall of Tattersall Press.”

  “Sam McQueen . . . freelance.” Sam flashed a smile, content with his delivery.

  The water beyond the chamber made everything a shade darker, but Ellis’ bright smile broke the shadowy ambiance. “Last week I ran my report: someone killed a large number of Athens chameleons, but not for sport—which still would’ve been horrible—they left the bodies there.” His hands shook like the story itched to come out. “On an island of endangered animals, just killing off a few can burden the species. My contact, Laura, said they cloaked the remaining chameleon habitats. So I run the report and voila, no more chameleon deaths. Except now spiked fowl are getting killed off.”

  “Mr. Mack,” said Sam.

  Ellis snapped his fingers. He moved close enough to see the sparse freckles atop his dark brown skin. “I knew we were on the same track. So Ned Mack gets killed, and scrutors find a damn museum full of animal remnants and crates of spiked fowl talons. Doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots between Mack and my articles. Apparently, he sold endangered animal parts to the rogue market. I published the updated story last night. Some would call it good reporting, others would say great. But to me, it’s just another day.”

  Ellis leaned on the chamber with a smug expression, but a long fish swam beside the glass, spooking him.

  “What about the other guard, and the hudger?”

  “Here’s where it gets dicey. I think Mack had a partner: Raske Olimpi. Mages caught Olimpi yesterday morning. He just so happens to be the Wildlife Commission’s lead wrangler, givi
ng him easy access to any environment on Okra. And get this: he went to Sir Gaspare’s home to heal from an Athens chameleon attack. Coincidence?”

  Sam couldn’t articulate his response fast enough.

  “I know what you’re thinking—why would Olimpi help Mack? Blackmail, or repaying a debt, maybe. But on Friday night, Olimpi returned with a fleshling. He must’ve arranged to come back after the gates closed, but found Dara Avabelle instead of Mack. Though her sister, Crissa, is making a name for herself, I think Dara is just a victim of opportunity. But Olimpi’s curse failed to kill her, and she went to Middleton Medical, where she got drunk with revenge. She killed Mack after discovering he and Olimpi were in cahoots. I’d hate to be that hudger right about now.” Ellis pantomimed slicing his throat.

  The accusations left Sam dumbfounded. “Now that is a story. You’re saying the guards and the hudger are in a weird kill triangle.”

  “Alice, my source at the manor, says she saw Mack on her floor that night. Gate guards aren’t allowed to leave their post aside for bathroom use, which there are two of on the fourth floor. A kill triangle is a possibility I’d gamble on.”

  Sam broke into a slow clap. “You’re gonna sell a ton of papers, buddy. But it’s not true.”

  “Hey, we sell subscriptions and advertisement space, not paper. And I have it on good authority—”

  “I’m the fleshling who came that night.” Sam’s eyes bulged as if he didn’t mean to divulge the tidbit. He let out a deranged laugh. “I sorta forced my way into Trida. But Raske didn’t hurt Dara—he saved her. The last thing we need is a slimy reporter soiling Raske’s or Dara’s name.”

  Ellis went silent, statue-like, and this discouraged Sam. He took a step toward the stairs in case the reporter tried anything. But what could Ellis do—force Sam to spill his guts to the mages? He recalled the truth serum Rowen had tricked him into drinking. Shit, he thought.

  “You’re . . . a fleshling?” said Ellis, in a quiet tone.

  Sam wiggled his fingers beside his pocket, more than ready to unleash his rogue wand.