Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  * * *

  Sal made a passing attempt -- a valiant attempt, he thought -- to search the desk and surrounding areas of the room, but he couldn't stay on task for longer than a few seconds without pausing to consider the sword set, standing propped against the near corner of the desk. After about the fifth attempt to redirect, Eshira loosed a very draconian growl. "We may as well pull the spit from the hearth," she grumbled.

  "What?" Sal asked, confused.

  "Leave. We may as well leave. You can't keep your eyes off those puny little knives, and I'm starting to get bored."

  She had a point. It wasn't just that they were exquisite examples of shol'tuk weaponry found in the possession of granites, but that one of them bore granite runes -- something that he had been chasing for weeks now. For all the treasures that the Spire might hold, Sal had already uncovered a priceless trove, and he was eager to crack it open and revel in it. Nodding, he snatched up the sword set, the handles somehow feeling right in his hands, and they made their way to the central staircase.

  As they approached the spiraled opening, he again noticed the pulsating aura, like a brilliant beam of clear pearl, white with pastel colors shifting throughout, running up through the tower like an axle, and permeating every open space in all directions.

  "What's wrong with you?" Eshira asked curtly. "You keep staring off into nothingness. First it's the swords. Now it's the stairs. I don't suppose they have stairs where you come from?"

  "You don't see that light?" Sal asked, surprised.

  The dragon looked confused for a moment, then signed, an oddly deep sound coming from such a slight form. "I've already told you, dragons are magical, but we can't do magic. Not like you'd recognize, anyway. So, no -- if there's an aura out there, I can't see it."

  "Well, it looks white, like a beam of pearl, but transparent and streaked through with shifting colors," he said, mounting the staircase and descending.

  "Looks like open air to me," Eshira remarked. "Wait, where are you going?" she asked as she followed Sal past the landing that lead to their makeshift door.

  "I want to see what's down there. Won't take two minutes."

  "Yeah, well, you haven't been able to concentrate for two minutes since you found those swords. What makes you think... you... what..."

  Sal turned in midstride and looked back at Eshira, just as she lurched to one side. She threw out a desperate hand, catching the rail in a death grip. Sal watched in revulsion as her hand -- her whole body -- bubbled slightly, with the coloration darkening and lightening in turn. It was as if her body was in revolt, trying to recapture its draconian bulk and splendor.

  "Are you okay?" he demanded, rushing back.

  "Do I look okay?" she snapped -- weakly -- her pain evident.

  Pulling one of her arms around his shoulders, Sal started to lead her back up the stairs. "I'm trying to help, so try not to spear me..."

  It took twice as long to go back up the stairs as it had to go down them, but Eshira's body seemed to protest less and less with each step. By the time they reached the landing where they had entered, she had pulled away from Sal and was walking on her own -- shakily, but independently.

  Reaching out to Emerald, Sal touched her shoulder and wielded. The dragon shrugged her reluctance at first, but acquiesced. She cast her eyes back down the stairwell, a look of true fear widening her reptilian orbs. "Salt of the Abyss, what's down there?"

  "Nothing good for you, whatever it is," Sal said. "I can always come back later. Let's just get you home."

  Not trusting her strength to carry him -- or her, for that matter -- Sal switched to Amethyst and led the way out the hole, turning in midair to eyeball the dragon as she made her exit.

  Eshira followed, leaping recklessly from the hole and transforming as she fell, finally regaining her form far too close to the ground for Sal's taste. She batted her monstrous wings a few times and shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs, then climbed back to his level.

  It only took a few minutes to cover the miles to the Camp of the Unmarked, but it seemed to take a lot longer. Sal glanced at Eshira every so often to make sure that she was still aloft. The dragon didn't like the attention one bit -- she mumbled something about "an invalid" that Sal didn't' quite catch -- but Sal kept his vigil. By the time they touched down in Caravan, she was well and truly irritated.

  "It's not as if I was going to drop out of the sky, milord Prism," she spat. "I've been taking wing since before your grandparents were born, milord Prism. If I thought for a second that I would---ah, hello, Menkal," she detoured dramatically, switching from bark to purr so fast that Sal had to wonder just how much of her rant had been real and how much had been for show.

  Not that it mattered now. He was nowhere on her radar. Menkal -- an embarrassed, foot-shifting Menkal -- was the only thing she could see. The two were hip-deep in conversation before Sal could even acknowledge that his part of the conversation was over.

  It was just as well. Hefting his prize before him, the steel hilt sparkling in the sparse rays of the sunset, he set off to find Marissa.

  * * *

  Retzu nodded at the constables as he stole through the southern gate and into the Commons. There were a few shouts of surprise, and even a demand that he halt and state his business, all of which the assassin ignored. Those constables that knew Retzu would know his business. They would suffice to acquaint those few who did not know him. Not that it really mattered. There wasn't a single guard in the city with the stones to press the issue and actually cause trouble for the Fellowship of the Silent Blade, no matter how they blustered.

  The assassin followed the Mainway past a handful of shops, ducking into the first alleyway he came to. Picking a likely spot for his ascent, he paused, fishing his new ring from his belt purse. It was a simple thing -- banded silver and a single stone; Marissa hadn't had time for anything more -- but it would do just fine.

  If, in fact, it would do at all. And there was only one way to find out.

  He slipped the ring back into his pouch then, stroking the gemstones on the cuff of his boots, he leapt into the air, catching the minuscule footholds that the alley walls provided.

  He found the rooftops in a pinch, then raced west and north, angling just enough to keep the setting sun out of his eyes as he hopped lightly from thatch to shingle to slat and back to thatch. Some roofs were small enough to jump completely over, if Retzu had wanted to, but he decided against it. Some roofs were in poor enough repair that they could barely support him skimming across them. He didn't want to chance more than the slightest of magically lightened landings, when at all possible.

  As he neared the western branch of the Learned Concourse, he spied a rooftop with shallow eaves -- and its sturdy twin, across the street -- that he knew well. He adjusted his angle and caught the roof's closest edge, giving him plenty of room for a running start. He pumped his legs furiously as he crossed the clay-shingled surface, sprinting out to the very edge of the eaves before he jumped. He passed at full extension over the merchant traffic far below. A few of them were lucky enough to catch a glimpse of him -- a man in black that flew like a bird across an impossible chasm. Of course, they'd turn excitedly to whomever was close enough to hear, and their neighbor would dismiss the exclamation, chalking it up to amethyst travel. "But no! Amethysts don't fly this fast!" they might argue, and on and on the discussion would go. Retzu had heard bits and pieces of it over the years, and it made him chuckle most every time. But not tonight.

  The sun was just wetting its feet in the bay when Retzu came to the area that he'd marked on his map, the circle just northwest of the Cooper's Horde. He was far enough into that area now that the scent of meatpies had come and gone with his passing. More's the pity. This could be a long night.

  As the daylight died, slowly giving over to twilight, he scanned the area, and scanned, and scanned again, marking the gaps between the rooftops in his mind. He pictured the whole region -- the buildings, the alleys, the spots where
the varied ambushes took place. Over there was where he'd first run up on Fila, slicing her bowstring with a shuriken. And over there, the miniature mansion where his sword sister died. At his hand.

  Emotions threatened to overtake him, and he shook his head furiously. There'd be time enough to grieve, to properly grieve, later, when his time with the Cause was finally done. Thumbing the moisture from one eye, he continued his survey, his gaze coming around from Sal's ambush site to where that young sapphire, Patrys, had almost died, and on to the north---

  Retzu jerked his eyes back.

  A bundle of thatch sat there, pushed slightly awry from its fellows. Near the top of the bundle, an indentation, and next to it, a darkened patch. Blood, maybe?

  A grin stretched wide across the assassin's face. Slipping Marissa's gift from his pouch, he donned it and crept forward.

  * * *

  Patrys dropped lightly from the rooftops, just moments ahead of her prey. She'd been watching the alcove since Firstweek, certain that someone would come to collect -- and destroy -- any evidence that remained of their part in Cedric's death. It seemed her patience was about to pay off.

  She lounged behind a pile of discarded crates, marking the whispers of booted feet coming up the twilight-darkened alleyway toward her. Seeing the barest outline of a body, she wielded, extending her influence like a bubble around her, filling the alcove. The rhythm of the footfalls didn't vary in the slightest as they crossed into her bubble, didn't slow with notice as their owner came into full view of the sapphire mage. She was getting better at this.

  The boots were ragged, and belonged to an equally ragged outfit, clothing an incredibly ragged man. He could easily pass for any of the hundreds of beggars that lived between the Academy and the southern wall. But Patrys wasn't fooled. His demeanor, the commanding way he walked and the air of confidence he exuded, put the lie to his disguise. He was no more a beggar than ryegrass was wheat.

  The man crossed the cobbles with purpose, angling straight for the cloth draped body near Patrys. He pulled back the linen to reveal the body of the granite mage, still half buried in the alley floor by his own interrupted magics. The portion that remained above the cobbles had only just begun to putrefy, testifying to granite longevity, even this long after the mage's death. The flesh had grown slightly discolored and misshapen. The shroud had kept the cloud of flies largely at bay, but a few had found their way through the folds, as evidenced by the small colony of maggots that had taken up residence.

  Odd. Once upon a time, the sight would've filled Patrys with revulsion. But now, she was barely moved.

  The stranger rifled through the granite's robes, easily at first then more frantically, as if in frustration over something that he'd expected to find. Patrys straightened a bit to get a better look, and she bumped the crates that gave her cover. A piece of rubbish tumbled off the pile and onto the cobbles.

  The man's head came up instantly, eyes leaping to the pile of garbage. To Patrys' hiding spot. To Patrys.

  She stood unmoving. Her special brand of camouflage had failed her from time to time, making it necessary to fight off those she had only intended to spy on. She was well exposed behind her cover, head and shoulders in clear view of the stranger. If her spell failed, there'd be no mistaking her for a box, or a door, or a wall, or whatever else her magic might hide her as in the man's sight.

  After a moment, the stranger cast eyes down both ends of the alley, then back to the corpse, once more oblivious to his observer. "Where is it?"

  Patrys' fingers slid to her throat. There, on a leather thong dangling below her scarf, hung a granite spear tip very similar to the finger-length blades that had made up the spell that had torn her throat out. Many of those had disintegrated shortly after the granite mage had met his end, but a few remained -- shattered bits of the part of the spell that had solidified, scattered across the alcove between the granite's body and the far wall. Some were stuck to the cobbles with dried blood. But the one she wore was different -- just as keen as the spelled blades, but bearing the family crest of House Cyphem. She didn't know why the mage had worn it, be it talisman or signet or trophy of past victories. Whatever the reason, it gave her an idea of where to look next for her would-be assassins. But she wanted more. She knew somebody would come to claim the body -- or the evidence, anyway. All she had to do was wait them out.

  Not finding the spearhead, the presumed beggar drew out a pendant of his own, this made of sapphire. He stroked the silver setting, and the stone began to glow. "Lord Heramis. It's not here."

  What do you mean? came a response, the voice booming even from the far side of the magical connection.

  "I mean du'Cyphem's body has been picked clean. Probably scavengers, if not the Unmarked that were guarding the scene over the last few days."

  The pendant sighed. Very well. Dispose of the body, then see to the manor. No doubt the rabble presumes that Uncle was part of the granite contingent, and will head to the Spire for answers. That gives you some time.

  "Are you sure, milord?"

  The sapphire paused briefly, then affirmed, Burn it. Burn it all.

  The pendant winked out as the would-be beggar took to his feet. Standing with hands akimbo, he considered the body before him -- probably trying to figure out how best to burn a body that was half-buried in stone.

  He'd never have the chance to decide.

  Patrys strode forward, discarding her spell. Immediately the man noticed her. "Where did you come from?" he demanded.

  The maimed Unmarked nodded to a bloodstained section of cobblestone. Right there, she Whispered. Yer man there fathered me.

  "You!" he said, his face a hodgepodge of revulsion, contempt, and fear. "I thought you were dead!"

  She raised a hand to her stoma cover, lifting the patch to reveal the gaping hole where her throat should've been. Almost. But not quite. With that, she wielded, wrapping her prey in bands of pure air. He fought viciously as the spell tightened around him, pressing clothes into flesh and limbs into torso, but struggle as he might, he couldn't budge the invisible bindings.

  Fear chased all the other expressions from his face. "It ain't my fault! I was only doing as I was told!"

  I believe ye, she said, though she was sure her tone wasn't so reassuring. Reaching up, she pulled the thong necklace up over her head, holding the spearpoint pendant out before her. This is what ye were lookin' for, aye?

  The color drained from the man's face, and fear gave way to sheer terror.

  Aye, I thought so. House Cyphem. A minor house around here, though its patriarch does hold a mascot seat on the Council. Plenty o' reason to not recognize yer boy here as one o' theirs. So, him bein' a proven murderer, this spear tip coulda meant anything, she reasoned. Why come back fer it, then, if'n it didn't identify 'im after all?

  She quirked a smile. Less'n, o'course, it did. Thank ye fer that, by the by. Saves me from havin' t'dig it outta ya. O'course... there's still th' matter of yer other friend. Heramis...?

  The hysteria in the man's eyes made her giddy. This is what she'd wanted, what she'd craved. The granite had feared Cedric in his last moments. She wanted to strike that same fear in the hearts of his compatriots.

  Just before she snuffed their lives, as the granite had snuffed dear Cedric's.

  The cold from the darkest corners of her heart rose up within her, traveling up her arm to the spearpoint she held. Ice crystallized around the base and grew outward, forming a nub, an icicle.

  A spear staff.

  Yes, tell me about Heramis...

  * * *

  Retzu watched the scene play out, from her odd manner of surveillance to her capture and interrogation of the supposed beggar. She played well on the man's fears, milking every move -- and presumably, every Whispered word -- for its full effect. Truly, he was impressed with the git's resolve.

  But there was resolve, and there was vengeance. You could use the former. The latter used you.

  Sighing, he swung his legs over
the eaves and dropped to the alcove below. The sapphire whirled on him, bringing her ice shafted spear to bear. Her gemstone eyes were blue fire set in sockets of rage. They blazed for a moment... and then dimmed in confusion and not a little bit of fear as whatever effect she was hoping for failed.

  "The wind kisses the wheat," he said, holding his hands up before him, and away from his hilt. "I don't think we've been formally introduced. I'm Retzu du'Nograh. I'm a shol'tuk adherent, and Sal's sen'sia."

  Patrys stood silently, the glow of her azure eyes pulsating slightly. Likely as not, she was still trying to cast some sort of spell on him.

  Or Whisper to him?

  "Can't hear ya, sorry," he said. He flipped his hand around to show her the back side, and the simplistic amethyst ring that rested there. "That spell that Sal taught your mate, Cedric? Marissa figured out how to apply it to an artifact. Blocks every spell from Whispering to ice balls to..." He threw his foot forward, launching a stone that lay there on the cobbles, minding its own business. The stone whistled as it flew, right past Patrys' ear.

  ...and ricocheting off the side of the supposed beggar's head. The man went down in a heap, his feet still shuffling in mid-escape.

  "...to bonds of air," Retzu finished. "Sorry for distracting you, by the way."

  Patrys' gaze passed from her prisoner to Retzu and back again. After a long minute, she lowered her spear and released her magics, catching the spearpoint as the staff of ice dissolved into thin air.

  Retzu offered his most reassuring smile and flipped his hand back around, taking care to show Patrys his thumb, pushing into the bottom of the ring, and breaking the skin contact he had with the gemstone on the other side. The ring still produced its null field, but lacking direct contact with his skin, the bubble it produced didn't extend around him fully.

  Of course, as a mage, she should see the change in the aura surrounding him, he thought.