Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  "Way too far away."

  "So maybe we find another hot link, closer to Bastion," she suggested. "What do you think a 'hot link' is?"

  "The start of a good chili dog?" Sal scoffed.

  "I'm not sure where you get a 'chilly dog' from a 'hot link', but I think chilly is about as far away from hot as you can get. As for where 'dog' came from..."

  "No!" Sal argued, laughing. "No, I meant---"

  "Sal? Marissa?" Tavin echoed through the Archives, casting eyes about before finally spotting them. He chugged down the hallway and burst into the side room. "Sal! I've been looking all over the place for you."

  "What's going on?"

  "It's Retzu. Well, actually, it's Retzu and Delana. They've both disappeared. Well, Delana disappeared first, then Retzu. Well, actually---"

  "Whoa, slow down there, cowboy," Sal said.

  Tavin took a deep breath before continuing. "Alright. Retzu went looking for Delana. I told him that the last time I saw her was yesterday afternoon. She was heading south out of Caravan with a shoulder pack. I didn't think anything of it, but Retzu made for her tent. When he didn't find her there, he said he was headed into town for a drink. Senosh tried to talk to him, but Retzu wouldn't say anything. Senosh got worried, and he grabbed Retzu's arm---"

  "Oh, no, please tell me he didn't..."

  The emerald nodded ruefully. "Retzu caught him in the sternum. Drove the wind right out of him. Probably broke a rib to boot. I stopped to heal him, and by the time we looked up, Retzu was gone."

  Sal sighed his dread and pushed back from the scroll-laden table. "Y'all keep at it. This may take a while. Anything that looks interesting -- you know, my kind of interesting -- set it aside. And while you're at it, see if you can rope the Learned Archivists into lending a hand. A lifetime of cataloging this stuff ought to prove useful."

  The amethyst nodded dutifully. Marissa offered him a sympathetic smile. "Be careful."

  Sal rolled his eyes in reply and headed for the door.

  * * *

  The streets of Bastion seemed empty without the insane press of Festival celebrants. The void around Sal was never greater than about twenty feet, but after the past few days, Bastion seemed like a veritable ghost town.

  He peeked his head into every tavern he could think of, but to no avail. The Honeyed Comb. The Cooper's Horde. Mutts and Muggs. The Randy Fox. The pubs got seedier and seedier as the search grew more broad, but no one had seen anybody matching Retzu's description. Finally, at the latest dive, the Drownt Wharfrat, he asked the wench if there were any pubs that serviced clientele of a more... deadly nature.

  Her face lost a little color at the question. "The Spitted Shadow," she said softly. "It's mostly cutpurses and cutthroats in there, but if you really wanna find a shol'tuk, that's yer best bet." Sal thanked her, tipped her a gold piece, and headed off to follow her directions.

  The Spitted Shadow was deep in the Commons, adjacent to the city wall and far from the north-south thoroughfare. The wooden building was dilapidated. The outer walls leaned dangerously at odd angles, and the planks were gaped, though not so much that Sal could observe the occupants within. He looked around, scoping out the seemingly disinterested denizens of this part of town, and concluded that even if he could see inside the pub, his observation wouldn't go unnoticed.

  The entrance to the pub was covered by a double set of swinging half-doors, the perfect image of every saloon shot in every cowboy movie he'd ever seen. As the gates swished shut behind him, he had to fight the urge to whistle a theme from those old spaghetti westerns. He scanned the moderately crowded tavern, but gently, not lingering too long on any face. The last thing he needed was to draw unwanted attention from people who themselves wanted to avoid attention.

  He found Retzu in one of the darkened corners of the public room, sitting by himself, with only a dozen or so sweating mugs to keep him company. Sal glanced at the barkeep, who stood behind the bar cleaning one of the varied mugs that stood before him. Well... "cleaning" was probably too strong a word, given the state of his rag. The barkeep met Sal's gaze, then shifted from Sal to Retzu and back, saying nothing. Nothing at all. He gave Sal no welcome, offered him no service, barely even registered the newcomer to his establishment. He just stood there, eyeing him warily, and rubbing filth deeper into the porous wood of the tankard.

  "Hey, Retzu," Sal said, announcing his presence long before reaching the table. The last thing he wanted to do was sneak up on the assassin, if that were possible. He didn't think that his sen'sia would attack him, but he didn't know Retzu's current state of mind, so he wasn't taking any chances.

  "Sal," Retzu replied, not looking up from his current stein. "Took ya long enough, mate."

  "You never called. All you said was that you were headed into town for a drink. Do you know how many places there are in Bastion to do that?"

  Retzu gave no indication that he heard. Sal still wasn't confident that he was safe to sit down, but he decided to risk it. He was no sooner in his seat that the barkeep approached with a tankard of ale. The same tankard that he had just been "cleaning".

  Lovely. Sal looked askance at the bartender, then at Retzu, then took a long pull on the bitter but surprisingly palatable draught. He nodded appreciatively at the barkeep and said, "Not bad."

  "Two coppers," the old man replied, spittle and tobacco juice spraying from his lips. Sal dug out a silver as fast as he could and handed it over. The barkeep bounced the coin in his hand until it struck the amethyst ring that he wore, jewel inward. The gem flashed briefly, and the barkeep nodded as he left, payment and tip accepted.

  "A trusting lot, barkeeps," Retzu remarked. "There's no counterfeiters in the Commons, of course, so I'm sure the ring is just for show."

  "Yeah, I bet," Sal said, smirking at the sarcasm and taking another pull from his mug. "So, how's things?"

  "Well, Delana's gone. There's that."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean gone. Vanished. Relocated to the magical land of Elsewhere."

  "I get that," Sal drawled, humoring Retzu's snark with as much patience as he could muster. "I mean, where did she go?"

  "Ah. Now that's another question entirely," Retzu said, sliding Sal a crumpled piece of paper. "She left this for me, in my dear brother's care."

  "What's this? 'I believe in you'? That's it?"

  "That's it," the assassin confirmed, chuckling darkly. "That's all she has to say, mate. 'I believe in you'. Translation: You're on your own."

  "She left the Cause? Why?"

  Retzu shrugged, and took another drink.

  Sal's guts did somersaults. With Delana gone, Retzu had no one left to pass the buck to, no one to stand for him and shoulder the burden of the Cause, to pick up where Reit left off. As casual as Retzu was sitting there, Sal couldn't help but see the caged animal within, pacing the bars and looking for a way out. "Well, look on the bright si---"

  "Don't, Sal," Retzu warned. "I don't wanna hear it."

  "But---"

  "No!" the assassin barked, sending the knife edged of his hand toward Sal's nose.

  Sal just had time to raise his own hand to block, though the momentum drove the back of his hand into his face. "Retzu, there's no one else! It's gotta be you." He could see the other patrons of the tavern, gathering their belongings and making haste for the door. They apparently thought that this was going to get ugly. He thought they might be right.

  The assassin sat back in his chair, loosing a mirthless chortle as he drew from his tankard. "Then there's no one else, mate. el'Yatza is dead. The Cause is dead. The Highest holds his damnable crown for another generation."

  "You can't mean that," Sal breathed incredulously.

  "No? Well, enlighten me, milord Prism, O prophesied Destroyer of Worlds," Retzu demanded bitterly, his stool tipping back as he shot to his feet. "What's the alternative? What, should I lead the Cause? Me? A taker of life, to become the voice of liberty? Who among the Cause would follow me? Who among the commo
n folk would risk their own lives to join my struggle? Who? Do you honestly think that the Crafter could use me, me, to right the wrongs of one who claims to be His Vicar? I dispense the Crafter's judgment, not embody His standards. Even if I wanted to take up Reit's mantle -- which I don't -- how could I ever hope to be worthy of the Crafter's favor and support, of His blessing? And how could we prevail without it?"

  "I'm not saying that it will be easy, but---"

  Retzu's hand went to his hilt, jutting out from his right shoulder. Sal barely had time to register this and stumble backward before the assassin's blade whistled forward, leaping from its sheath and parting the tankards on the table between them -- parting many of the tankards themselves -- in a single motion. Sal's hand went for his own blade, and he almost had time to pull it. Almost.

  Retzu flicked the broken flagons from his blade and swept it upward, slicing through Sal's leather tunic and sheath strap. Sal felt an almost imperceptible shift in weight as his sword fell free behind him. He retreated a step. "What are you doing?" he shouted, but if Retzu heard him, he gave no indication.

  The gold-hilted blade came again at Sal, and he batted it away with a bare handed block to the side. A third chop came, this time a slice to the groin. Sal spun to avoid the cut and retreated further, stumbling into one of the newly vacated tables. The assassin took advantage of this misstep, cutting a keen line back across Sal's abdomen. As he moved to protect his belly, is weight bearing knee exploded inward before a vicious kick. Desperately, Sal reached out to a soulgem, any soulgem, only to have his focus shattered by a hilt punch to the temple. In an instant, he found himself broken, bleeding, and lying on his back, completely exposed and at Retzu's mercy.

  The gold-hilted shol'tuk lay his sword lightly across Sal's neck, the mere proximity of the razor sharp blade drawing blood. "I'm a killer, mate," Retzu said, anger giving way to the barest hint of resignation. "I love, but not like Reit did. I fight, but for myself. I can barely direct my own steps before the Crafter, let alone lead a righteous rebellion. Mark me well in this, Sal -- I am not my brother."

  Sal propped himself painfully on one elbow, and cast bleary eyes at Retzu, the assassin wavering in his vision. "I'm not asking you to be your brother," he said, knuckling a trickle of blood from his nose. "I'm asking you to be his."

  * * *

  I'm not asking you to be your brother. I'm asking you to be his.

  Sal's words echoed in Retzu's mind as he stalked the Commons, going nowhere in particular. And stalk he did, apparently, as evidenced by the thugs and thieves that stumbled over themselves in retreat whenever his path crossed theirs.

  His steps carried him from the Commons to the section east of the Mainway, a part of town that was just as "common" as the Commons but far less likely to hide a shiv in the shadows. Here, too, he found people practically diving into alleyways and doorways to avoid his dread attention. It would've been laughable, had Retzu even the slightest sense of humor about him.

  He continued east, past the Archives a few blocks to the north, past the outermost entrances to the Academy, into a disused corner of the city, so ramshackle that only beggars and street urchins could call it home. Some of these peered at him from behind broken panes and unhinged doors, just as terrified as those in the Commons, but far more curious. It struck him that their lives were so dreary that they could afford themselves the luxury of curiosity. His heart broke, and his steps stuttered, but he screwed up his anger and trudged on.

  These are the people I fought for, he could almost hear Reit say.

  "Begone, spectre," Retzu hissed. "You're not there."

  The broken, the unwanted, the unloved, continued Retzu's fallen brother, as if he hadn't heard. Ironic, that. I fought for them because they cannot fight for themselves. It was my duty, as heir to the throne of Aitaxen. That duty now falls to you.

  "I said begone!" the assassin shouted, and he made for the farthest corner of the slum at breakneck speed.

  Buildings flew by as he ran -- closed shops, fallen homes, the occasional smithy, all stacked against a forgotten section of city wall. Many of the structures had been co-opted by the priesthood for practical service to the destitute. Some provided shelter for the poor. Others were used as soup kitchens. Still others housed clinics where priests with emerald talent might bless others as the Crafter had blessed them. They all stood as testimony to how the Crafter could use the broken and forgotten, those things meant for evil intent, and transform them into things of honor.

  They were a shining witness for the priests... and a bitter accusation for Retzu.

  The bulwark continued behind the buildings to his right, driving eastward directly into the sheer base of the mountain. Angling toward this corner, he leapt into the air. With practiced ease, he tucked his feet close and stroked the gems under the rolled cuff of his boots. Magic flooded the hard leather as he made contact with the wall, springing high up the cliff face, only to skip back to a point higher up the wall. Back and forth he bounded, until he was past the battlements, past the highest tower, and running full sprint up the steep mountain side. Reit continued to whisper in his soul the whole time, fueling his anger and driving him further onward.

  He wasn't sure how long he'd run, or how far, until he came to a relatively flat summit and stopped, his chest heaving. The late autumn sun beat down on him from directly overhead, providing a stark contrast to the chill wind that cut through his leathers. He looked around him, and saw that his peak was the only peak around. He could go no higher if he tried.

  With nowhere left to go, he spun in a slow circle, taking in the vastness of the world around him. The island province almost looked small from up there. He followed the entire coastline west of him around to the south, from Bastion's harbor to the low foothill occupied by the Granite Spire -- appearing so tiny as to be insignificant. Farther south, on the very horizon, he spied a distant film of green beyond the waters, where the Mainland proper hemmed in the Sea of Ysre. He continued around eastward, catching various fishing villages along the island's golden strand. He found the rebel fleet, little more than cargo ships, clustered at anchor to the northeast, and forming a broken line back around to similar cluster on the Camp side of the harbor.

  He kept spinning around until his eyes fell upon the spot where his brother fell. The makeshift fortress looked almost like a rowboat, adrift on an open sea of brown and green, and swarming with dozens of gnat-like dragons. From this far away, it looked like any other ruin that he'd ever seen -- ancient, broken, speaking to a history that was either forgotten or soon would be.

  And I'm a part of that history, Reit said -- that part of Retzu's soul that was his brother. You are, too, however far you might run from it.

  "What can I do?" Retzu asked the emptiness, as if it could reply. "I'm not you! I've done too much, I've taken too much. I've sent hundreds of people to the Abyss, more than I can count, and as much as I'd like to say that their deaths were honorable, I can't say they were merciful -- not to them, and not to their loved ones."

  I don't excuse your past, Reit said sternly. And I cannot give you absolution. That blood is on your hands, and it will stay there until the day that you give an account before the Crafter.

  "Then why must you hound me?" he pleaded.

  Because the past is dead. Each second that passes is a second that you cannot get back. But what you did with that second doesn't determine what you do with the next. You may pay a price for your past, but you don't have to occupy it, and that reward doesn't have to be your only reward. Redeem the time, little brother.

  Redeem the time. Reit had used that line to recruit Retzu to his Cause. And he'd used it as an argument against Retzu's interests in shol'tuk. It was a recurring theme for him, the notion that everyone's life had purpose, and that it was the Crafter's Will that they seek that purpose out.

  And he was whispering it yet again, now from the Crafter's bosom.

  Retzu collapsed bonelessly to his knees, entirely spent. Then Retzu
du'Nograh, gold-hilted shol'tuk and only surviving member of the ruling families of Aitaxen, wept. Finally he wept, with an abandon that he had not known since he was a child. Redeem the time, said Reit's ghost. I believe in you, Delana had written in lieu of saying goodbye. They insisted that he had purpose. But how was he to know what that purpose was, or how to achieve it?

  How he needed them now. His brother, infinitely wiser than he. The sister of his heart, infinitely more caring. Oh, how he needed them now.

  * * *

  "I believe in you," Delana whispered, looking eastward through the dense foliage toward the mountain island that she could no longer see. Even if the forestation had not been there, and nothing stood between her and the Sea of Ysre save the thinnest blade of grass, she doubted she'd see more than a faint bump on the horizon.

  "You do realize he'll never forgive you, sticking him with the Cause like this," Eshira said, her thundering voice pulled back to a soft rumble.

  A single tear rolled from her amethyst eye. It broke her heart to leave Retzu, and Caravan, and... him. Even more so, considering the state that Delana had left him in -- lingering, stuck between this world and the Crafter's bosom, unable to find peace in the unending season.

  "He'd hate me all the more if I didn't do this," she said, resigned.

  "You don't honestly believe that you are why Reit remains, dying yet never dead? Surely you couldn't do by accident what no other amethyst in the world has ever done on purpose. And they've tried, believe you me. All of the Tiles have tried -- Amethyst binding the soul to the body, Emerald healing death, Ruby exciting the very bits of a corpse to try and excite it back to life. It's all been tried."

  Delana knuckled her eyes dry before another tear could brim, and berated her own weakness. What good does crying do now? Will it bring him back? She snorted her suddenly runny nose, the almost-grinding noise loud in her ears against the relative quiet of the forest. It would've been decidedly unladylike, had she cared about propriety. "It doesn't matter. He cannot move on, whether I'm to blame or not. But if I can do anything to change it... This is the only hook I have left in the water."