Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

He spied two blooms leaving the Main Hall, mages, both with eyes of green, though one of the auras had a slight multicolored opalescence to it. Sal, of course, likely accompanied by Jaren.

  When he relieved Japheth at Third Watch, the amethyst had remarked that the motley-eyed mage had brought someone into the infirmary, a sapphire on death's very doorstep. Rumor had it that Sal had been attacked again, and that the sapphire and one other Unmarked had paid for it with their lives. Other rumors had the sapphire surviving her partner. Still others suggested that the sapphire had slain her partner in Sal's defense.

  Senosh shied away from the rumors, all of them. He was a passionate man as it was, and had learned a long time ago the dangers of jumping to conclusion. The fact that he still retained the name of Tribe Bastuen was more a testament to the Crafter's Hand than it was Senosh's capacity for forethought. There were many in Deitrich even today that wouldn't mind seeing the ruby staked out in the sands, baking under a summer sun.

  He was just about to sit back down when he caught a heat bloom rising to the west, near the shoreline of the bay. A dragon, by the looks of it. He'd seen many of the flying lizards in the skies over Ysre, but they'd all been to the north, on the far side of Bastion. None had flown near the city on his watch, much less to this side of it. Whatever the dragon had been doing on the shoreline, it had been doing it there for a while.

  He gave a mental shrug and turned his eyes back toward the Camp, only to jerk them back to the dragon. Had he seen a splash of violet? Magical though dragons seemed to be, they didn't cast spells or leave auras like humans did. He squinted his eyes for a better look, but saw nothing save the indistinct yellow-orange of the dragon's body, turning west and climbing high into the clouds. He watched as the dragon's heat bloom faded swiftly in the distance, but he never saw what had caught his eye.

  He scoffed under his breath. Standing watch did funny things to your head, made you see things that were never really there. He knew this, but there he was all the same, jumping at midwatch mirages like some tenderfooted city boy.

  Chapter 10

  "Sal," chirped the annoying voice with an insistence that was almost certainly malicious. "Sal!"

  "Don't you know when you're being ignored, Tribean?" Sal said, sullenly refusing to open his eyes to the new day.

  "Of course I do. I just don't care."

  "Well, since you put it that way..." With extreme effort, Sal pried his eyes open, then blinked. Then blinked again. Gradually, the dimly lit innards of the barracks came into focus. It occurred to Sal that his woven grass bed was far too comfortable for its meager construction. He found the Onatae emerald next to the bunk, sitting on his hunkers. "What time is it?"

  "About an hour until Watchbreak. You said to wake you up for training?"

  "Yeah," he croaked. "Geez, it feels like I just laid down. Have we had any more... incidents?" The question came out more halting that he'd hoped. After losing Cedric last night and almost losing Patrys, it was a question he really didn't want to ask, and he found himself bracing for the answer.

  "No, nothing. In fact, it's been rather quiet. Beyond an overlarge population of drunks in the stockade, that is. I would've given you another half hour, but you got company."

  Sal sighed, silently cursing his "company" for their poor manners. "Who?" he asked, casting Tribean a sideways glance. In the flickering torchlight, his olive colored face was inscrutable. Not that Sal had ever been able to read the man that easily even in full sun.

  "I dunno," the emerald said with a shrug, standing to leave. "Just get up. I have to get back to my watch."

  Sal slowly rolled out of bed, his body screaming in protest. The pain he felt wasn't an injury that he could readily heal. He'd exercised his emerald talents before lying down, anyway. No, this was a pain of a less physical, more relentless nature. It would only be healed with time and the oblivion of sleep -- dreams optional. He stumbled through the mostly empty bunks in the bullpen to the wash barrel at the far end of the room. He considered washing for a moment, but realized that anything quicker than a full bath would only be rearranging the filth, so he opted to simply dunk his head. Adrenaline jolted his system as the chill water flooded his senses and traced rivulets down his back as he came back up. He shook the water from his hair, and his eyes fell on the mirror hanging in front of him, on the image staring back.

  An image conspicuously missing an eyepatch.

  So much had changed in the past few days that it was a bit overwhelming. He almost felt nostalgic for the now-obsolete disguise. Almost. Not even a week ago, he stood at this very mirror, his "Subsergeant Sal of the Southern Plains" persona firmly in place, and looked forward to Harvest. He was still missing his friends, his adopted family in this world he found himself in. He was still organizing a rebellion among the Unmarked, gathering what strength he could to be ready to lend aid to the Cause.

  Reit was still alive, then. And Cedric. Patrys was still an untried, unsure teenage girl, and Aten'rih was still commander of a Camp that Sal was secretly stealing from him. And the real James Salvatori was a virtual unknown.

  But all that had changed. No longer was he hiding his singular natural eye, or the singular nature of his gemstone eye. Nor was he hiding his rebel allegiances from a company of soldiers loyal to the Highest. He'd grown so used to being an enemy insurgent, so used to wearing his carefully constructed mask that his newfound liberty left him feeling naked, exposed, vulnerable. Now, everybody that he knew also knew him -- perhaps not entirely, but they certainly saw past the persona.

  Some were even coming to recognize him as the Prism, whatever that really meant. Jaren and Menkal could talk about prophecy all they wanted, but the whole prophecy thing was just too surreal for him -- and that was saying something, him being from another world and all. Sure, his brand and versatility of magic was unique, but he just couldn't see himself as the "savior of the world". He was just a guy -- a badass Navy SEAL and a passable shol'tuk, but a regular guy for all that -- who got sucked down a rabbit hole and deposited on the flip-side of reality.

  He loosed a rough chortle, a little punch drunk from disbelief and lack of sleep. The fact that he could even think all this stuff without presuming his own insanity, that might've been the biggest change of them all. As long as he had the eyepatch on, he could afford to reserve part of himself, withhold that portion from the rest of the world. He could still look out from behind his disguise and see his crazy life with some detachment. But that reserved Sal was gone now. All that was left was... Sal.

  He tugged on his linen tunic, and his leather armor over that, then turned toward the foyer of the barracks to greet whatever company he had.

  ...only to find her there, standing in the doorway. And it came crashing home for him just how much things had changed.

  "I thought you might like some blackbrew," Marissa said tentatively, bearing a clay urn and two mugs. "I heard you had a rough night..."

  Sal moved toward her, slowly at first, then quickening his pace to the point that he was running by the time he reached her. He enveloped her in his arms and pressed his lips desperately to hers, his fingers digging through her auburn curls, scrambling for purchase. Distantly, he heard the crash of shattered crockery, and felt the splash of hot liquid through his breeches, but none of that mattered. That happened in a whole other world to a whole other man. Right now, all that existed for him was this world, this Sal, and the one woman who truly saw him for who he was, beyond the SEAL, beyond the katana, beyond the diamond eye.

  In his arms, he held his entire reason for fighting, his entire reason for being in Bastion and leading a rebellion within the Earthen Rank itself. He held his entire reason for keeping it all together as his world was upended and rearranged. He held his entire reason to hope for something better. Turning, he lay his head on her shoulder and wept, bitterly, shaking from the effort. He let the raw emotion of the last few days pour unashamedly from his eyes while she held him gently, whispering soft words and weeping with him.


  * * *

  Death is a conduit, conducting the soul to the next world as current through copper wire.

  Retzu knelt in shol'zo rah, reciting his hilts with eyes closed, his breathing slow and deep.

  Death is redemptive, like the gold that frees the slave from bondage.

  The words of the mantra echoed in his mind as he willed his world into focus. So much had happened over the past few days, so much had been lost, that it was hard to keep everything in perspective.

  He had given so much to Reit's Cause, given so much to see his brother's dream of a freed Mainland a reality. The riches of the shol'tuk life. The thrill. The freedom. The prestige of holding a position in the Fellowship. A love or two that would've most certainly led to his own demise... and so sweetly, at that.

  His own brother. And Anika, lost to the Cause when it still belonged to Father, and King Titus before him.

  And now this. His sword sister, Fila, the daughter of his sen'sia. Lost not just to his blade, but to the insane, heretical worship of the Highest.

  Death is raw, like the hide of the newly skinned bull.

  It was all too much. Too much.

  What if... fighting the Highest wasn't worth it? What if he really was the Vicar of the Crafter, the messac'el that many thought him to be? Or the Crafter Himself, as the Shadow Magers believed? What if the Crafter simply won't let the Cause prevail?

  What if all those lives had been lost in vain?

  Death is soft, like the doe in her winter coat.

  Death is---

  "Retzu?"

  "Good morning, Sal." He replied without looking. He was pleased with how evenly he spoke.

  Efficient, like the linen that covers the slave's back.

  "I waited for you out in the quad," Sal said, sounding unsure. "You did say that you wanted to get together for some sparring, right?"

  Death is smooth and easy, like the caress of the harlot's silken sheet.

  "I did. But not today, mate. I understand the Festival was a bit rough for you, and I think---"

  "Oh, don't worry about me. I'll make it. Just another day at the office, ya know?"

  "I didn't ask if you'd make it," Retzu snapped, then clapped his mouth shut. Fool. He was such a fool, letting his emotions rule him like some unhilted initiate.

  Death is cold and hard, like the iron chains that restrain the murderer.

  Slow. Easy. He breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth. He just had to tough it out a little longer, just until Delana saw the sense in her taking up the leadership of Reit's Cause. Just a few more days. "I appreciate your dedication, Sal, but today's not a good day. I... need to reflect on the passing of Long Harvest." Well... Fila, anyway. Still, not bad, as far as excuses go. "And I'm sure you have responsibilities aplenty to tend to, whether you'll 'make it' or not."

  "We do have two new prisoners to interrogate, aside from all the drunks," Sal admitted. "We might get lucky and get a line on who that granite was and who he was working for -- maybe find out what other surprises we have coming. Of course, if that one in the street was the boss, it may mean that the Granite Spire is empty, and that would be one heck of an opportunity. And then there's the Archives. I've been itching to get in there and---"

  "Sounds like a busy day, mate," Retzu said, as tersely as he dared allow himself.

  Death reflects our inner being, like the brass plate reflects the sunlight.

  Please, Sal, take the hint.

  "Right," the mage drawled, still sounding unsure but unwilling to press the issue. "If you need me for anything..."

  He never finished the offer, instead leaving Retzu alone with his thoughts. The assassin sighed his relief. He was fond of Sal. More than just his friend, Sal was also proving himself an adept student. The otherworldly soldier had remarkable leadership skills, and had an incredible capacity for improvisation. That last added tremendously to the ease with which he took to the strictures of shol'tuk. He was already through his fabric hilts, almost a half-year faster than Retzu himself had reached them. At this rate, he'd reach iron by Courting, brass by the following Courting, or the start of Greenfield at the outside. He had all the makings of a legendary gold. Retzu could even see him possibly being invited to join the Hidden Triad one day.

  He was fond of his sodu, and was proud to be the man's sen'sia. But that was the problem. He cared for him. Just as he had cared for Fila.

  Once.

  Death is a conduit... Death is redemptive... Death is raw...

  * * *

  "So... he doesn't want to spar with you today," Marissa said, as if waiting for the punchline.

  "I know. Weird, right? It's like he's totally disconnected himself from the rest of the world."

  Sal sidestepped one of his Unmarked as he wended his way through the still brightening streets of Bastion, all heading blearily toward their early morning routines. He sympathized. His own coffee -- correction, his blackbrew -- probably still lay in a puddle on the floor in the barracks, if the maid hadn't cleaned up after him.

  "Do you think it has anything to do with yesterday's attacks?"

  "I'm sure it does, but I can't imagine what. I mean, he's shol'tuk and---" He cast his eyes about him, but nobody was close enough to pay any attention to their conversation. Still, he lowered his voice when he continued. "---and he's Cause. He's been killing folks for years, for Pete's sake."

  "For whose sake?"

  "Never mind. Point is, yesterday shouldn't have fazed him. Something's up."

  Marissa's brow furrowed for a moment in consideration, but then she brightened. "Well, if you're still looking for a fight, I suppose you could turn your attention back to investigating the attacks. I hear you captured two more prisoners."

  Sal felt a grin tugging at his lips as he heard the steel in her comment. She had handled herself well -- remarkably so, both during the attack and after -- but he'd worried that it had all been an act, a brave face she put on for her boyfriend. Or whatever "declaring intentions" made Sal. But even the next day, her eyes were rock hard, and her tone had a keen edge. He wondered briefly if he'd been more shaken by the attacks than she had.

  "Nope, no luck there. I left Retzu's tent maybe a minute or two after you did, so rather than run you back down, I headed over to the stockade. Menkal was already there, working on the two new prisoners. He had them broken in record time," he said with a chuckle.

  "Indeed?" Marissa asked.

  "Yep. They spilled everything... which wasn't much. Just that they were working for that granite we found in the alley. In the alley," he repeated, amused at the unintended pun. "Menkal thinks that they were feeling us out for the Highest."

  "Feeling us out?"

  "Testing our defenses, our resolve. They wanted to know what makes us tick."

  "Makes us---?"

  "Never mind. You know, you really need to work on your Earth slang."

  She offered him a playful smirk. "And the granite?"

  "The last one on the island. All the rest are in Schel Veylin for Harvest."

  Marissa frowned. "So that's it, then? Seems rather anticlimactic," she remarked, her uncertainty evident in her voice.

  "It does," he admitted. "And to be honest, a little too easy, too neat. Makes me think we're missing something."

  "Well, if there are any other answers to be had regarding our granite..."

  "Way ahead of you, boss," Sal replied, his mood brightening tremendously. "I'm thinking I'll head to the Granite Spire this afternoon, maybe, or first thing tomorrow."

  "By yourself?" she asked with a note of concern.

  Sal shrugged. "I don't see why not. I mean, I might bring one or two others, but everybody's busy doing something right now. I don't want to pull anybody off a project until I'm sure that I need them, or at least until I figure out how to get into the thing."

  She nodded her acceptance, but then scrunched her brow in confusion. "So then, where are you taking..."

  She never finished her questio
n. Sal edged her to the right, around a seemingly random corner, bringing them face to face with a seemingly random marble building. Sal barely held in his mirth as he watched Marissa's jaw drop.

  "Marissa Daune Loh'tein, I present to you... the Archives."

  * * *

  The dusty odor was the first thing that Sal noticed, as one of his Unmarked pulled open the oaken double doors. It was a faint scent, reminiscent of every library he'd ever been in. It was the smell of yellowed paper, cracking leather, and old glue. It was the smell of time, slowed to a crawl by the accumulation -- the sequestration -- of knowledge.

  "Oh my," Marissa breathed reverently, tiptoeing forward like a disciple setting foot within a temple for the first time. Sal had to admit that he was rather swept away himself.

  He'd been in this world for the better part of twenty weeks -- barely two months, as they reckoned time here -- and he'd learned next to nothing about how his two worlds were connected, save the fact that they were connected, somehow. They both knew English. They both had a solar calendar that was three hundred and sixty five days long, and included a leap year. They shared some basic stories, though the names were changed. To protect the innocent, Sal quipped to himself. But as to how the two realms were actually linked, Sal still didn't have a clue.

  Well, other than the granite that brought him here.

  He still saw the mage in his dreams -- the greying hair, the scruffy face, the solid brownish-grey eyes, flecked with black specks. The hatred. The image was faded now, not in detail but in intensity, and growing ever more so as he grew more familiar with magic, and less fearful of those who wielded it.

  His eyes fell upon the interior of the Archives, so long his goal, and now finally In the palm of his hand. He sighed deep and nodded his satisfaction. This world, his new world, had been too long a stranger to him. It was high time they got acquainted.

  "About time you got here," came a cheerful tenor from within the stacks. Sal turned to see a tall, bulky man step into the open. Violet gemstone eyes glowed brilliantly from within a youthful, chocolate colored face. "We cleared the wards from the entrance yesterday afternoon. I was sure you'd be here before dinner."