Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  "Hey..." Sal greeted, smiling broadly, hoping his confusion didn't show.

  "Gaelen," Marissa prompted.

  "...Gaelen," Sal finished lamely. "I knew that."

  "Good morning, milord mage," Marissa greeted, enveloping the amethyst warmly.

  "Mistress artisan. Milord Prism."

  "You're gonna call me that too? I wish I had your confidence."

  Gaelen's eyes took on a faraway look as he recited...

  One of flesh and one of stone

  Both together, both alone

  One to watch and one to wield

  Light rejoice and Shadows yield

  One to rise and one to fall

  One to past and future mend

  One to gain or lose it all

  One two separate worlds to end

  "Separate worlds to end? Don't like the sound of that at all. It's that kinda thing that makes me hate prophecy."

  "That's why it's a prophecy," Gaelen said, pleasantly condescending. "It's supposed to sound apocalyptic."

  The amethyst waved them to follow as he moved deeper into the Archives. "That verse, Sonnet Three of Tile Three, is actually one of the most divisive prophecies there are about you. Some think what you thought, that it foretells you destroying our world and your own." Gaelen cast a smirk backward to Sal, demonstrating exactly what he thought of that.

  "Well, what else could it mean?"

  "I haven't a clue," Gaelen said glibly. "What I do know is the kind of man the Prism appears to be, both in the whole of prophecy and before my own eyes. That's enough for me."

  Beyond the foyer area, he turned left, and led them into the Archive's northern division. A small but serviceable kitchen And dining hall stood about fifty yards off, at the westernmost tip of the wing -- the same kitchen that Keth and Reit had used just a few nights ago.

  All of a sudden, a sickening sense of foreboding fell upon him. They stood here, probably in this very spot, just two days ago. Now they were both dead. And here he was, about to follow in their footsteps. Would they lead to the same end?

  "C'mon, Sal," Marissa whispered, jogging him back to reality.

  "This section over here..." Gaelen pointed to a small alcove in the northeastern corner of the wing, near a stairwell. "This is where the Prismatic Prophecies are. Everything you ever wanted to know about... well... you, you'll find here. Everything from the actual compilation, organized by Tile and Sonnet, to the varied references to you throughout history." The amethyst's eyes took on an excited light. "One of the Archivists told me that the Soul Taker himself spoke of you!"

  "The Soul Taker...?"

  "All in good time. Anyway, the main body of the library is down here on the first level -- histories and magics to the north, practical applications to the south. There are a number of side rooms in the cellar, as well as on the second floor, but that stuff tends to be rather disorganized. If you'd like---"

  "Whoa, whoa, waitaminute!" Sal said, cutting the Mandiblean off in mid-ramble. "How much time have you spent here?"

  Gaelen considered for a moment. "Well, we dropped the wards about two hours before Watchset, and the Learned here were gracious enough to lend me a bed for the evening, so---"

  "I mean, total. You're whole life."

  "No, I understood you," the mage assured. "I've spent about half a day here, total."

  Marissa covered a chuckle with her hand, though not very effectively. Sal could only stand there, speechless.

  "I'm a fast learner," Gaelen said, sounding a bit self-conscious. "All amethysts are. Also, it's a pretty necessary skill for a priest. We teach others as we ourselves learn."

  Sal felt a wide grin crack his face open. Delana chose well. He was definitely going to have to thank her when he saw her.

  * * *

  Mik hunkered against the parapet atop the rampart, peering into the rapidly filling courtyard below. An impressive sounding granite walked the lines at the near end of the yard, his commands booming through the still darkened bailey as he called the assembly to order. The stomp of a thousand boots resounded in unison as the battle fist of Rank mages came to attention, all eyes -- an uncomfortable number of them amethyst -- pointed in Mik's direction. The old man whistled low under his breath, and huddled a little deeper into the hood of his lead-dusted cloak. He had every confidence in the mantle's ability to hide him from all but the most piercing arcane scrutiny. Still, with five hundred mages standing less than a hundred yards away, he didn't want to leave anything to chance.

  As he watched, another battle fist poured into the courtyard, falling in with the already formed ranks and swelling their number to a thousand. He ran the numbers in his head. Between this regiment, and the four others that were already assembled in the open fields outside of Schel Veylin, that was an entire company.

  Once upon a time, five thousand men wouldn't have sounded like much of an army to Mik. But these weren't mere men -- the mundane Ranks rarely rose above the level of soldier or centurion, and almost never served any other purpose than to draw fire. No, these were mages all, most of them trained since ascension for the express purpose of slaughtering anyone who stood in the way of the Highest's designs.

  And they were headed out. But they were early. A dang blasted week early, if the ruby at the gates was to be believed.

  Something else struck him as odd. The gate officer had said that the Highest was moving in response to the Cause taking Bastion. It only made sense that a Bastion-bound army would have assembled on the highroad to the east, toward Scholar's Ford, but those awaiting this regiment outside the city walls were in the fields to the west, as if Bastion wasn't their destination at all.

  Mik shot a glance to the east. The sky was lightening. He had maybe ten or fifteen minutes of twilight left before getting down from the rampart drew unwanted attention.

  He turned his back to the parapet and slid to his rump. He looked right and left along the wall walk for unwelcome visitors, but all he found were the pair of guards he'd dispatched before taking position, shurikens still lodged in their throats. He regretted having to kill them, but he hadn't the time to knock them out properly. They'd seen him scaling the wall. Had he been a second slower, they would've been able to shout out a warning.

  Mik sighed. Maybe he really was getting old. What a bittersweet feeling.

  Confident that he wouldn't be interrupted, he tapped the small lump behind his ear, activating the sapphire chip that was embedded beneath his skin.

  "Retzu? Are ye there, me boy?" Mik whispered.

  The voice that floated back seemed... distracted. Foggy. I'm here, Uncle.

  Uncle. Even that years-worn term of endearment seemed off. "Look, I heard about yer move on Bastion. I woulda spoke to ye sooner, but I figured ye'd need some time to set things in order, so I made fer Veylin instead, to see what trouble I could find. I'm sure ye know that the Highest is movin' against ye. But there's a thing'r three about this that don't make sense. Tell Reit that---"

  Your gonna have to find a more shady messenger for that one, Mik.

  Retzu's tone was so hollow, empty, that a sour pit settled in Mik's stomach. Retzu was never this out of sorts. Never. "Whadda ye mean, boy?"

  A pause. I mean that Reit's sheltering in the Crafter's arms.

  "What?!? How?"

  It happened during the fight with Bastion's Ranks. I don't wanna talk about it.

  Mik didn't think he could talk about it at that moment if he tried. If he'd wanted to. He'd known Reit since he was but a boy, no more than eight. He'd raised him -- and Retzu, and Anika -- as his own.

  The sapphire connection grew shaky as Mik wrestled with his emotions. There would be time enough to grieve later. But time was of the essence, and growing shorter with every passing moment. "Well then, ye need to be on yer guard. I'm starin' at a full regiment right now, and four more a-sides, and they mean to make life difficult for ye."

  I'll pass that along.

  "Ye do that," Mik responded, though he carefully school
ed his tongue to keep it from getting away from him. Pass that along? Did he not take Reit's place? Who was minding the Cause, if not the brother of its founder? Mik grit his teeth. He thought he'd taught the boy better than that. "And when ye do, also pass on that there are... strange things about this army."

  Like what? Speak plainly, Uncle.

  Mik struggled to put his concerns to words. "Well, they're organizing in the west of Schel Veylin, for one, not the east. Almost makes me wonder whether Bastion is even their target."

  Well, just stick with them and find out, if you would.

  "Ye know I will. One other thing... they only got one granite in the whole lot."

  * * *

  Retzu pushed back the tent flap and was greeted by a burst of new sunlight, freshly peeking around the southern face of Mount Ysre. He threw up his hand to shield his eyes, but then dropped it, instead staring fully into the yellow orb. Remarkable. The whole world could be falling apart -- as it was now -- and the sun would continue as it always had, rising in the east and setting in the west, day in and day out as if none of this mattered.

  He wondered sometimes if any of it did.

  So the Ranks are sending a full company to Bastion, not counting mundane tagalongs. Perfect. Just what he needed to hear this morning -- that the Highest saw the Cause as a threat worthy of the same force he sent to Tarkesien, the Blood Flats.

  It could be worse, he supposed. They could be sending a legion, so the Cause could be ten times as dead.

  He sighed, not wanting to move and thereby rejoin reality. But Delana needed to hear Mik's news. She needed to prepare, and Crafter take it if she wasn't ready to lead the Cause. They needed her, and now. Her mourning would have to wait, as would his own.

  He headed over to her tent, the one she had shared with... with Reit. He poked his head through the flaps, but the shelter was empty, save for the cart in the back. The bed was made, the furniture undisturbed. She even had a stack of clean laundry on her bed, folded and ready to be stowed in her open footlocker. Wherever she was, she wouldn't have gone far, so Retzu nodded shortly to his brother and backed out of the flap.

  He spied Jaren a few shelters down, Refreshing himself in the morning sun. "You're gonna burn your eyes out, mate," he said as he approached. The emerald cocked a grin, and remained there with eyes wide open, soaking in the light. "Have you seen Delana this morning?"

  "I'm afraid I haven't," the mage said. "Last I saw of her was yesterday, when we were discussing Sal's little adventure. What? You haven't seen her?"

  "Nah. If you see her, tell her I'm looking for her. I have some information about the Earthen Ranks that she's gonna need to hear."

  Jaren quirked a curious eyebrow. "More secret messages from that invisible friend of yours? That curious old fellow that's far too young for his skin?"

  "Not today, Fiol," he warned.

  "I'm sorry, my friend, just tweaking your nose," the mage replied, snickering. "Fifteen years or more I've known about him -- since he returned you to Aitaxen. Neither you nor Reit ever saw fit to tell me who he was. I don't expect you'll tell me now."

  "Just tell Delana I'm looking for her?" the assassin repeated, clapping Jaren on the shoulder as he left.

  His search led him to the portion of Caravan where the amethysts gathered. Without a permanent guildhouse for their Order, they'd taken to congregating at Japheth's tent on the eastern edge of the village, closest to the Camp of the Unmarked. Retzu found roughly a dozen somber faces there, raising early morning tankards to Cedric, Sal's fallen lieutenant. A good number of Unmarked were there with them, and as he asked around, amethysts of both Rank and Order drifted in and out of the gathering. None had seen Delana, but they would all be looking for her.

  Retzu's hands grew cold and his stomach fluttery. Something was amiss.

  Death is raw...

  He stopped hunting down amethysts, instead turning to those on guard duty. Ironic, then, that the first watchman he came across was also an amethyst.

  Japheth had held the shoreside patrol at Watchset, and south lookout during Second Watch, relieved by the rubies Naumen and Senosh respectively. No, he hadn't seen her. Most he'd seen was a dragon further down the beach. Yes, he'd keep an eye out.

  Naumen wasn't much more help. He hadn't seen her since the previous afternoon, walking with Menkal.

  Retzu was in a right twist by the time he caught up with Senosh. He found the beefy ruby talking with the emerald, Tavin, and one of the sapphire's from Wayfarer's Rest. His manner of conversation was animated, to say the least.

  "I heard you're looking for Delana," the Mandiblean said brusquely. "I stopped by her tent a few minutes ago to see if she'd come back." He shook his head, clearly at a loss.

  "The last time I saw her was just before Watchset," Tavin interjected. "She was carrying a small pack."

  Retzu's eyes went wide. "A pack? Hanging from one shoulder?"

  Tavin shrugged, nodding. Retzu's flutters grew into spasms. Was it possible...?

  No. She wouldn't dare.

  Without so much as a word, he turned and darted back toward Delana's tent, summarily shoving aside anyone with the poor luck to find themselves in his path. He left a trail of shouts and complaints -- no doubt Tavin and Senosh were among them -- as he thundered through the earthen alleyways of Caravan.

  Death is soft... Death is efficient... Death is smooth and easy...

  He burst into Delana's tent, again taking in the room, but now finding it a bit too neat. A bed that looked like it hadn't been slept in. A stack of folded laundry. An open, half-empty footlocker. Her cloak, usually laid across the back of her chair, gone, as was the shoulder satchel that she kept packed for emergencies. And Reit...

  Reit.

  Retzu's eyes fell upon his brother, lying serenely on his cart, hands clasped peacefully over his chest.

  The last time Retzu had visited, Reit's arms had been at his side.

  He approached the cart, eyes locked on his brother, on his hands. They held something.

  Gingerly, he lifted one hand, revealing a scrap of paper, hidden there for safe keeping.

  She wouldn't dare.

  Death is cold and hard... Death reflects...

  He lifted the note clumsily. It was in her handwriting, complete with wide loops and flourishes. The note was short, revealing next to nothing.

  Revealing everything.

  "Retzu," Senosh said, pushing the tent flap aside. "What's going on? Did you find something?"

  How could she? How could she even dream of it?

  He turned, slowly, catching the mage's blazing crimson eyes. "I'm going into town, mate. I need a drink. A lot of 'em..." he finished as he pushed past the ruby and into the street.

  The Eastern Shores

  Chapter 11

  "So you didn't spend any time yesterday celebrating Long Harvest?" Sal asked, laying an old letter on the teetering summit of his growing mound of scrolls and tomes.

  "Of course I did," Gaelen mumbled, only half engaged in the conversation. "I just don't celebrate it absent my faculties, like some folks. Priest thing."

  Sal shrugged and grabbed a leather bound book -- a ledger from some long dead accountant, most likely. He'd had only planned to spend a few moments here this morning, just long enough to get Marissa started, but he barely thumbed through the first few pages of vellum before he found himself thoroughly engrossed. The morning hours flew by beyond his notice, not staying on any one subject long enough to truly appreciate the work. He'd pick up a likely candidate, skim through the contents, then set it back down with an almost palpable regret. There was so much here, so much raw knowledge, that he could spend a lifetime leafing through the wisdom of the ages and never find anything of practical use.

  Not that he would consider the time wasted. Not by a long shot. Each text opened to shed new light on this strange world -- a world where he'd likely live out the rest of his days. The tomes awakened an explorer spirit in Sal -- Marissa and Gaelen as well, apparently
-- and he found himself constantly distracted by the wonders he found within them. More than once, he had to wrestle his attention back from this dissertation or that treatise, and refocus on the task at hand.

  "Hey, check this out," he said, holding the book before him. "It's a journal by an emerald named Hogan Braud. Listen to this. 'It's been a week since the Lynchers ambushed us outside the ruins of Schel Caspia and took Natasha. I've finally tracked them to a hot link, jutting from the walls of the new mountain range. It's still operational, if you can believe that. I first spotted its opalescent aura this morning, but judging by the way it flickers, I doubt that the facility will last much longer.' Opalescent aura?" Sal asked at the end.

  "Yes," Gaelen answered. "Like the aura your eye gives off when you're resting, not touching any soulgem."

  "So maybe I can learn something about Diamond at one of these hot links, right?"

  "I'm not sure. Schel Caspia," Gaelen said, turning the words over in his mouth, tasting them. "Seems like I read that name just a few minutes ago."

  "Found it," Marissa said, holding up a yellowed parchment. "It's on this old map. It doesn't show much, but you can see Schel Caspia right here. Just northwest of this mountain range."

  Sal studied the map. Marissa was right -- it wasn't much. But to be fair, it was the first map he'd seen of this world, aside from the rough scribbles that Reit made in the dirt floor of their prison cell, a lifetime ago. The rarity of these maps had to count for something. "Those proportions can't be right," he commented. "I mean, look at how big the city is in relation to the mountain range. Where do you think this is?"

  "I don't recognize any of those names..." Marissa said slowly, then added, "but if I had to guess, it looks a lot like the plains and foothills between Bayton and the Vale."