Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  "I regret nothing," the gold-hilt cooed with a chill that belied the clouds. "Their deaths were unavoidable, but that makes them no less unfortunate. Each one of us joined this Cause because we believe our lives to be ours, and ours alone -- not the property or province of another, be they magistrate or king or the bloody Highest himself. It's heartbreaking that somebody should die to tell us different, in service to a man who will never know their names."

  A patriarch two spots to the sapphire's right, a youngish Mandiblean emerald, spoke up. "He's telling the truth, D'akris," he said. "Or what he believes to be the truth, anyway."

  "I can see that," the sapphire replied, never taking his eyes off the trio before him. "You do realize that the Highest will respond in force, don't you, milord du'Nograh?"

  "We do. We hope to be out of your hair before that happens."

  "Then why come here at all?" D'akris asked, suddenly looking rather unsure. "Why not just leave, if that is your aim?"

  "Because the Highest uses education as a means of control. He knows that as long as his people are the smartest people on the battlefield, any rebellion that forms against him is doomed to failure. We aim to change that."

  The sapphire looked long and hard at the trio. Sal's skin crawled at the scrutiny. Finally, the patriarch waved his peers into their seats, and asked, "How?"

  * * *

  The audience went on for well over an hour -- a good deal of it Retzu. Sal couldn't help but be impressed by his sen'sia's argument. Far from the carefree assassin that Sal had always known, Retzu du'Nograh was a most formidable negotiator. He wielded his logic very much like he wielded a blade, with decisive cuts delivered at precisely the right moment to achieve maximum effect. Retzu may not like diplomacy or leadership, Sal thought, but it suited him brilliantly.

  "We would require that you share what you learn, of course," clarified another patriarch, a mundane female in her middle years, at one point. "Especially those of us mundanes who've never set foot inside the Archives. If we're going to allow you the freedom to delve the secrets locked away in there, we'd like a share in the spoils."

  "Of course," Retzu said. "The whole reason we wanted the Archives is so that the Highest couldn't pick and choose who would benefit from the knowledge kept here. Wouldn't help our case any if we started picking and choosing ourselves, would it?"

  "No, it wouldn't at that," she snickered.

  The audience, shifting from interrogation to discussion, descended into informality. As the conversation centered more fully on Retzu, Sal drew Aten'rih to the side. The emerald instructor quirked an eyebrow in unspoken question.

  "The null field. The mace and shield," he whispered, indicating the emerald's now-normal arms. "How did you...?"

  "Well, think about it for a second," Aten'rih replied, in a tone that suggested that the answer should've been obvious.

  That didn't help Sal's mood a bit. Nor did it help him find the answer.

  "Subsergeant," the emerald addressed, firmly if quietly, easily slipping into instructor mode. "Explain for me the nature of a null field."

  "It's an amethyst utility spell," Sal recited. "It's used to render mages powerless, reliant upon mundane means. It's used to aid in confinement, where the mage might otherwise escape physical restraints, and can be used defensively in combat, though at great cost to the wielder. It manifests as a field of energy, encompassing the target mage. It functions as a barrier between the mage and those things that his magic might---ahhh!"

  "And the candle is lit," Aten'rih said with a grin.

  "So because you wielded your spell was against your own body, it defeated the function of the null field?"

  "Just so."

  "Does it stop granites from melting?"

  Aten'rih nodded. "They can still wield certain magics against their own bodies, but they need to wield against the ground below them in order to become one with it."

  "So why didn't we ever learn that at Camp?" Sal asked shrewdly, though he already knew the answer.

  "Rank training, year three, one of the last things you learn before your Marking Day. It's not a vulnerability that we want raw recruits to know about."

  "Especially because Emerald can do so much with that loophole," Sal added.

  "Right."

  Sal shrugged. "On the other hand, it would make hazing a lot more interesting."

  "Don't even think about it, Subsergeant," Aten'rih warned.

  "Roger that."

  "What?"

  "Never mind."

  "Commander," hailed one of the patriarchs, a Ysrean mundane. Sal didn't know the young man, but he carried himself as if he were well aware of his family's worth. Sal disliked him immediately. "I was wondering if I might discuss with you the use of the Camp as quarters for Caravan..."

  With both Retzu and Aten'rih otherwise engaged, Sal thought it a good time to send word back to Caravan. He released Emerald and touched Sapphire, holding a picture of Menkal in his mind, and...

  The Council gasped as a whole. The female patriarch was the only one who dared speak. "Blessed Crafter...!"

  "What?" Sal demanded, his eyes cutting in every direction, scanning for danger.

  "Your eye, milord mage," said D'akris. "You were an emerald before, but now..."

  Then it dawned on him. For all their arguments to the patriarchs regarding the Highest, the validity of their Cause and all that, it had never occurred to them to reveal who Sal was. The patriarchs, being chief members of the Bastion elite, were educated enough to have at least a passing knowledge of the Prismatic Prophecies, if not be completely familiar with them.

  "Oh, yeah. That. Ummm... I'm the Prism," Sal deadpanned.

  He expected surprise, or even shock, from the patriarchs. Even an outburst like their earlier one would've made sense to him. What happened instead...

  As one, the patriarchs froze in place, like a deer caught in a car's headlights. The color drained from their collective faces, and a couple of them collapsed heavily into their seats. Their expression wasn't anger or shock or even fear per se. It was dread, as one who sees the end of his life approaching and is utterly resigned to his impending doom. None spoke, save one of the mages -- an otherwise curmudgeonly sapphire -- who breathlessly whispered, "One of flesh and one of stone. Both together, both alone..."

  Retzu's expression reflected Sal's own thoughts -- confusion, maybe a tad unnerved. Aten'rih, though, looked like he empathized with the patriarchs.

  Sal would've preferred another outburst.

  * * *

  Hey, Menkal...

  Could you give me a moment, Sal? the old sapphire Whispered. I'm a little busy. He did his best to keep his mind empty of the green-scaled visage of the dragon, its tongue flickering serpent-like mere inches from Menkal's face

  "You're a bold one, aren't you?" it rumbled softly, its voice unmistakably feminine.

  "It's one of my more endearing traits..." he joked, more from hysteria than from humor.

  "I would imagine. Not many humans -- mage or mundane -- would approach a dragon den of their own free will." It edged one catlike yellow-green eye near enough to illustrate how pitifully small Menkal was in comparison. "Fewer still would be able to hold their water with one at arm's reach."

  "Eshira," called another dragon -- the blue one, from the night before. She had broken away from a small flock, circling high overhead. Her great wings cupped the air, slowing its fall as it lightly came to rest a few paces away. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

  "Just telling him how I admire a bold man," the green dragon said petulantly. "It looks rather dashing on him."

  "Eshira..."

  "Yes, milady." Eshira lowered her head before Menkal in a draconian bow. "Milord mage. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

  "Likewise, I'm sure," Menkal said uncertainly.

  "You'll have to forgive Eshira," the blue dragon said. "She's recently begun her preening."

  "Preening?"

  The blue dragon chuckled deeply. "I
t's of no consequence. How may I help you?"

  Menkal opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He took another run at it, but failed again. The dragon was just so big, so imposing, that he had a hard time keeping his mind on his task. "I'm sorry, milady dragon," he stammered. "I'm having a little difficulty..."

  "Of course," the dragon said graciously. "Perhaps this will help."

  As Menkal watched, the massive form of the blue dragon remade itself. There was no aura of magic about the transformation, but she transformed all the same, reducing in size and grandeur until the shape coalesced in the form of a woman -- beautiful and of indeterminate age, with pain evident in her face but passing. Her skin held a slight bluish tint, and shimmered slightly in the sunlight. She wore no clothing, but her wings wrapped around her body, clinging to her like a robe, so Menkal could not rightly describe her as naked. But for all that she might appear human now, her slitted eyes dispelled the illusion.

  If the mage's mouth was dry before, it was purest dust now.

  "My name is Athnae," she said breathlessly, her strained voice now a rich alto.

  "Menkal", he breathed. He smacked his lips dryly, trying to work up the spit to have a decent conversation.

  "An honor," she said, drawing her leg back in a magnificent curtsy. "My mate, Aplos, felt that you would appreciate a liaison who was a bit more... genteel."

  "It helps," he admitted, grinning sickly and silently wondering what ever possessed him to volunteer for this.

  * * *

  Sal got no explanation for the stunned silence of the patriarchs. Even Aten'rih said "we'll talk about it later", though his tone suggested nothing of the sort. Sal could do nothing but file it away with his frustration and return to the task at hand. As the Council turned to their next item of business, Sal excused himself from Aten'rih and Retzu to attend to their people north of the city.

  Lacking someone in Caravan to Whisper with -- Menkal was still incommunicado -- Sal sent a messenger on horseback to bring them south to set up in the parade grounds west of the Camp of the Unmarked. They'd talked about Caravan simply staying within their hastily constructed fortress, but the patriarchs didn't want the rebels on both sides of the city. They didn't relish the idea of being surrounded by people they didn't entirely trust. He couldn't fault them for that.

  Sal then turned his attention to the Unmarked. He touched Sapphire briefly to command the Unmarked into the city, and then switched to Amethyst to oversee the rotation of fresh troops. He reached the north gates in a fraction of the time it had taken him to reach the Council building, but by the time he got there, fresh troops were already in place, and their weary brothers in arms were nowhere to be seen.

  He spied Tribean, standing dutifully outside the inner guard shack. "You just won me two silver standards," he said cheerfully as Sal touched down in front of him.

  "How's that?"

  "Jelleck bet that you'd head back to Caravan first, to see a certain artisan," the emerald explained. "But I knew you couldn't pass up the opportunity to micromanage things."

  "You're ugly and your Mama dresses you funny," Sal retorted, then stood at attention, prompting the same from his lieutenant. "Footman Tribean, report."

  "Forces reallocated as ordered, sir," the Onatae mage clipped sharply. "Posts on the north, west, and east perimeters are relieved, as are the central posts and roaming patrols. We expect word from the south wall any moment. Available amethysts are expediting the process of getting the on-shift to their assignments, and the off-shift to their racks."

  "Excellent. Have Hafi or Patrys get word to me as soon as everybody's settled in," Sal said, wielding Amethyst and lifting back into the air.

  "Where are you headed to now, sir?"

  Sal smirked. "To live up to Jelleck's expectations."

  * * *

  The scroll crinkled softly under Nestor's touch. The ancient vellum was firm and velvety, belying the years that it survived, testament to the strength of the granite magic that preserved it. The library was full of many such volumes, though only a scant few of them were written in metallic ink, the only kind of writing that he could read with his eyes opaque as they were. Fresh ink he could easily make out, but unless the ink contained a metallic additive of some sort, it faded from his view as it dried.

  Nestor's hand shook as he reached up and touched the crystal pendant at his throat. It was a simple thing -- a tear shaped quartz, polished to high clarity, set in a serviceable steel backing and hanging from a sturdy leather thong. It was certainly nothing extravagant. But it had been a gift from the Highest, a token of esteem, and of the secret that only a handful of granites knew. With it, he could see the world as he once did, long ago, before he received the blessing of Granite. How he longed to use it now, to see the scrolls in all their aged beauty, rather than as a orangish collection of near-imperceptible bits, adorned with yellow writing.

  The scroll he held was one that chronicled the rise of Haitato, an Onatae kingdom that flourished shortly after the Rending. It ruled the Eastern Shores for almost two hundred years before falling to the fledgling Armies of the Shadow Mage, a fanatical forerunner to the Earthen Ranks that revered the Highest as a demigod, the physical embodiment of el Himself. If the tomes were to be believed, the Highest had all but conquered the world in the days following the Rending -- not just the Mainland and the Mandible, but Leviathan's Maw, the Expanse, the Outer Reaches, nearly the whole of Te'ra! Had it not been for the vi'zrith of the Scar, rallying the water tribes under a single banner, he would have succeeded.

  It was so strange to him, now, to think of the Highest's failures as anything other than devastating. He'd loved him, once. The Highest brought sense to the world, order. He was all powerful and everliving. It was only logical to bow to his authority, and to bow eagerly. The Highest had been everything to him, the very Vicar of the Crafter... only, now, he realized just how close that title came to "the physical embodiment of el Himself". It was blasphemous, of course, idolatrous, and yet that's precisely how he'd seen the Highest, how everyone saw him. But to look at him now and consider him to be just a man, like any other...?

  Nestor heard the whisk of footsteps and he looked up, hoping to see Jaeda finally joining him in the library... but it was Cao Tzu, elderly, yet spry in his orange and yellow robes. Wool, he decided as the older granite got closer, though the myriad fibers had an almost artificial appearance to them.

  Jaeda remained absent, as she had all morning.

  "Good afternoon, Chief General," Cao Tzu said pleasantly. "Ah! I see you've found the Haitato scroll. Excellent reading, one of my favorites. Remind me sometime to tell you the story of Soul Taker and the Covenant of the Waves. Fascinating stuff!"

  "What was Jaeda angry about this morning?" Nestor's question was sharper than he'd planned it to be, but he was not about to let Cao Tzu dodge him like he had that morning.

  If his host was perturbed, it didn't show. "There's a procedure that I'd like you to consent to -- the removal of your shackle. Jaeda was concerned that it was too dangerous, that it might kill you, but I've done it many times before."

  "You have?" Nestor half-shouted, jumping to his feet. "And they lived?"

  "Yes. Well, most of them."

  "How many?" Nestor asked warily.

  "I've removed forty seven shackles, forty one of them successfully."

  "Six deaths."

  Cao Tzu nodded solemnly. "Each artisan has their own special way of crafting a shackle, and no two shackles are identical. This made things very difficult for me in the early days, as I had no artisan to teach me the whys and wherefores of gemsmithing."

  "I understand... but six deaths?"

  The older mage waved off his concern as inconsequential. "Thirty three removals since the last one. I think I've finally developed a talent for it. I would've told you about this earlier, but I wanted to collect the necessary equipment before broaching the subject with you. 'Never invite trouble unless ye have a place for him to sit,' as my Da wa
s wont to say."

  Nestor considered Cao Tzu's offer in silence, all the while resisting the urge to fidget with the shackle where it sat low, gently grinding the leather thong into the nape of his neck. "What needs to be done?" he asked finally.

  * * *

  Nestor followed Cao Tzu from the library. His host had done little to quiet his fears over the procedure, but his trepidation was irrelevant. He did not know what the future had in store for him -- with the Highest in Schel Veylin, with Cao Tzu here in Aeden, with Jaeda -- but he did know that without his magic he was crippled, bereft of something that was so fundamentally him that without it, he was incomplete.

  Cao Tzu led him down a long hall and ducked into a room to one side. Words were inscribed into the door facing, some of them in common script, some in letters decidedly more blocky. What he did recognize read, "Project Manager," though as with the numerous other inscriptions pocking the walls of Aeden, they meant nothing to Nestor. Still, he pondered them, turned them over in his mind. He knew the words "project" and "manager", but why they should be used together was unclear. He gave a mental shrug as he entered the room behind Cao Tzu, shelving the mystery as just one more to plumb while he was here. All would be revealed in due---

  He stutter-stepped as he came around the doorjamb and found Jaeda within. She was arranging a chair in the middle of the room, but she could've been dancing for all the grace she exhibited doing it. She straightened at their entrance, and stumbled a bit herself. "I..."

  "Talk as we go," Cao Tzu interrupted. "This may be a long process, and I'd like to get it underway while I still have the light."

  Jaeda nodded and stepped back, motioning Nestor to sit. The chair that she offered him was a comfortable one, with a low back and padded arm rests. She slid a footstool, cushioned as deeply as the chair was, under Nestor's feet.