Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  He spied Retzu at the forefront of the rebel group, climbing down from his perch on Aplos' back. Absently, Sal thought it'd been a good call, putting saddles on all the Cause dragons, whether they had riders or not. Menkal and Eshira had...

  Sal cast eyes about. He searched the rebel lines, from one end to the other. He couldn't find Menkal and Eshira anywhere. He angled toward Aplos, and Retzu met him halfway.

  "Where's Menkal and Eshira?"

  Retzu searched the lines as Sal had. "I don't know. We'll look for them in a minute. How are you doing?" he asked, pointing to his own eye.

  Sal started. He was so drained that he didn't realize that he was still holding Granite. Oh wow, this wasn't going to be pretty...

  "Retzu, I need you to catch me."

  "You need---?"

  Sal didn't wait for him to finish his question. He just released Granite, and the world went dark.

  When he came back to himself, he was still on his feet, with Retzu still holding him up. "Guess that didn't take too long, huh?"

  "You try holding you up, mate," Retzu huffed, pushing Sal ungently back onto his own center of gravity.

  "Right," Sal said with a half-shrug. Turning to his audience of rebels, he asked, "Anyone seen Menkal and Eshira?"

  Heads shook and looks of confusion passed from face to face, human and draconian alike. All except Athnae. The water serpent whipped her head around, peering south and east of their position. She thrummed with silent power, not Whispering per se, but her communication was nonetheless evident. As he watched, her bescaled face grew more grave, more disconcerted. "Blessed Crafter, no." She turned back to Sal, her azure eyes glossy with unshed tears. "Sal," she said. She didn't have to give him any direction. He was already in motion, swinging up into the saddle. They took to the skies, not pausing long enough to see Retzu and the others follow suit.

  Eshira sat on her haunches about a half mile north of the city walls, neck curled around her body. Rebels that had been left without mounts had flooded from Bastion's north gate, looking for wounded allies to help, and wounded enemies to finish off. A number of these rebels crowded around Eshira -- close, but not too close. Sal couldn't tell whether the distance they were keeping was respectful or fearful.

  He dismounted Athnae almost before the dragon had touched down, deciding that fear and respect were equally irrelevant. Something was wrong, bad wrong. Sal rounded Eshira's massive head at a run, thinking to find her wounded. But she was just fine as far as he could tell.

  Menkal, on the other hand, was not.

  Sal fell upon him at once, touching Emerald as he touched the sapphire's body.

  His body.

  He knew that's all the once-mage was now. Sal didn't need Emerald for that -- he could see it with his own eyes. But he had to know for certain. He wielded, delving into Menkal's body, searching for any spark of life. There was none.

  Menkal's body was badly charred on one side, probably the result of a fire wyrm's blast. The other half was wet from where he'd tried to shield himself from the flame, or put it out after getting hit with it. Sal sensed a number of slipped discs in Menkal's spine, evidencing a bad fall or three. The sapphire also had a good deal of pooling in the brain, indicating concussion. But that wasn't what killed him.

  On one side, Sal felt a number of broken ribs. They felt like recent breaks, but not immediately preceding death. There were blood vessels clotted against internal bleeding, some rudimentary swelling and some deep bruising surrounding the breaks. But two ribs were broken through sometime after the fact. One had punctured Menkal's lung. The other one punctured his heart.

  Sal opened his eyes from his examination. With his magical sight, he noted the discoloration in Menkal's vitality. Or lack thereof. He'd already begun to decay.

  He looked up, his eyes meeting Eshira's. There was a hungry look to her's, a desperate hope that Sal might be able to save her mate. A hopeless hope.

  He didn't say a word. He never shook his head. But Eshira saw it anyway. She roared her pain, nearly blowing Sal onto his back. She bellowed, long and deafening, running out of breath before she could run out of grief. Leaping up, she pounced on a broken red body just a few yards away, digging in with fang and talon, ripping the corpse apart in huge chunks, as if she could save her husband after the fact.

  Sal scrubbed the tears from his eyes and called a few people forward to help him with Menkal's body. Eshira looked up immediately, issuing a shriek as feral as anything the Spawn could have produced. Sal's helpers froze in their tracks. Sal lifted his hands and backed away, slowly, leaving Eshira to her husband, to her revenge, and to her grief.

  The Maw

  Epilogue

  The ship rocked violently as it eased through the channel. Delana was certain that the sun had come up, though in the storm darkened morning it was impossible to tell. The channel was nearly pitch black, except for brief flashes of angry lightning. Delana thanked the Crafter for Harker having the foresight to tie her to the railing at the front of the aft deck. The Maw was stirred up as bad as Delana had ever seen it, and it was all that she could do to keep the worst of the lightning from striking the ship's mast, to say nothing of keeping her feet.

  "You're doin' fine, girlie," Harker shouted over the storm, his hands strapped to the tiller just slightly behind her. "Best I seen in ages."

  "I should hope so," she hollered back, palms lifted high against the Maw's rage. "My father knew how to use every resource at his disposal. His daughter ascending to Amethyst was something else to factor in."

  "Can't say as I'd do anything different."

  Delana smiled. "Neither would I."

  This was the third channel they'd come to, not counting the myriad pepperings of islands they'd passed, barely submerged or rising above the waves, depending on how the storm turned the waters at any given moment. The Trident was nearing the end of almost a quarter mile of channel, narrowing in some places to a few yards on either side. It was a testament to this crew, human and vi'zrith alike, that they'd survived even this far. To think that they did this for a living...

  The Trident finally breasted the channel mouth and entered a cove of sorts. If Delana had to guess, she'd peg it at about a mile in diameter, with them entering in the middle, but given the rough wind and waters, it was hard to tell.

  "Now!" Harker shouted, and Katka'ran, who was tied to the railing opposite Delana, raised his hands to comply. The vi'zrith's eyes blazed with wielded azure magics, and the storm around them calmed. Somewhat. The water was still incredibly choppy, but nowhere near the chaos that raged outside the bubble of the sapphire's influence.

  "Gotta do this quick," Harker said, loosing his bonds and moving to Delana's side. "He won't be able to hold it for long."

  "What do you mean?" Delana asked, confused as Harker fiddled with her harness.

  "He can only hold the storm back for a few minutes at a stretch, and he's gonna have a powerful headache when he lets go."

  "But why? Why's he even holding the storm back at all? I don---Hey!" she shouted as Harker manhandled her, grabbing her around her waist and tossing her over his shoulder. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "You wanted to swim with the vi'zrith, girlie," he shouted back to her. "Yer fixin' to get your wish."

  Delana kicked and twisted against her captor. She was tempted -- really tempted -- to give him a jolt of amethyst for his troubles, but electrocuting him would mean electrocuting herself. She had to figure out some other way...

  "T'is been a pleasure, girlie," Harker said as he stumbled across the deck to the opening in the railing where the gangplank ran out. "A true pleasure. Say hullo to the water folk for me."

  Delana's stomach lurched as Harker tossed her overboard. Incredibly, Harker was smiling and waving as she fell backward.

  She reached out to Amethyst, frantically forming the concepts to Lift her, when she hit the water, driving the air right out of her lungs.

  * * *

  The sounds of movemen
t grew less and less as the dragons and their human riders departed, heading off for God knows where. Still the Highest sat, there in his darkened closet, listening to the connection formed between himself and Farhaven. He could see very little. Farhaven's cupped hand didn't cast much of a shadow, barely strong enough to even allow for the connection. Looking around him, he felt humiliated, having so little to work with.

  The closet took on the very form of the shadow in Farhaven's hand, with the bloodied cloth of Farhaven's shirt beneath the Highest's feet and the gigantic hand above, punctuated by Farhaven's ring with its obsidian band, casting magics that only the Highest himself was privy to.

  So pitifully little, and growing less as the sun angled through the dead man's fingers.

  The Highest fumed, wishing desperately for something to kill. The fool. The utter fool. Farhaven had been a skilled granite, nearly sixty nine years ascended, high in the Guard and poised to go higher. He had the respect of his granite brothers, the awe of his Rank peers, and the fear of the people. And to be brought low by...

  What? A myth? Or a messiah? The Oddity -- James Salvatori, he called himself -- seemed an impossibility. The fabled "Prism", able to touch multiple soulgems through the medium of his diamond eye. The man prophesied to save the world or destroy it. But he was still one man, one mage with nobody to train him, no peer to illuminate the path before him. He should have been child's play for Farhaven. At the very least, the Guards that were with him should have been able to---

  "Milord Highest," came a voice, bouncing through the ether. A different voice, younger...

  "Who is this?" the Highest purred, doing nothing to hide the menace he felt at the moment. He wielded, and Obsidian responded, shifting the view of his closet from the cooling corpse of Glyn Farhaven to the cupped hand of somebody he'd never seen before. The face gazing into shadows of the cupped hand was that of a young granite, no more than thirty, given the still-teenage look of his slowly aging face. "How are you able to speak to me?"

  "I'm sorry, milord. I don't mean to presume, but Commander Farhaven commissioned this ring, in case he needed to send a messenger upon his demise."

  "I see," said the Highest, stroking his beard. "What is your name, boy?"

  "Ferris, milord. Ferris Millstep. Soldier," he added lamely.

  "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Soldier Millstep," cooed the Highest. "My congratulations on having survived our departed commander. What of your news?"

  "Twofold, milord," Millstep said, the relief evident in his voice. "First, the mission was a partial success. We've captured a large portion of the rebel army."

  "Excellent," the Highest exclaimed, pouring into his voice a pleasure that he certainly did not feel, the news coming from this simpleton. To be humiliated in this way, not once but twice, and in full view of the same population of citizens, and to have the perpetrator of that humiliation escape with his pathetic life was absolutely intolerable.

  Still, the Highest effected as keen a smile and as cheery a voice as he could muster. He could kill the simpleton later. "I don't suppose you know of any prisoners that would be particularly useful as leverage against the rebels...?"

  "Not yet, milord. We're still in the process of moving them. We won't be able to interrogate them until nightfall."

  "I see. And your second piece of news?"

  At this prompting, the soldier's grin took a turn that appeared far too bloodthirsty for such a innocent countenance. The Highest felt his own face twisting eagerly in response.

  A twisting that was thoroughly justified.

  "The traitor, sir," Millstep said. "Nestor Veis. Before Commander Farhaven died, he located him, far to the north. Somewhere in Lost Aeden's Garden, milord."

  "Very well done, Soldier," the Highest purred, this time his praise absolutely authentic. "Or should I say, Captain."

  * * *

  Shutters and doors slowly creaked open as Sal and the surviving rebels tracked south along the Mainway, the dragons flying overhead. This close to the north gate, and bordering on the patriarchal district, the residences were upper crust, successful if not wealthy. Many of the faces peeking out at the battle-weary rebels twisted in distrust, even hatred at having brought war to their doorstep yet again. Some of them drooped with sympathy for the lives that had been certainly lost. Sal couldn't look them all in the face -- he didn't have the energy after the battle, or the will after the looks of contempt. But he could hear them, whispering, spitting, gasping in admiration or disgust. But one word cut above the whispers, gently at first, but growing as it was repeated -- el'Yatza.

  Sal looked to Retzu, walking along next to him. The assassin's eyes grew misty at first, at the mention of his brother's honorific, but they began to dance from one side of the street to the other, panicky, as grief turned to horror. The people weren't lamenting Retzu's brother. They were naming his successor.

  He froze in place, refusing to go a step further. Sal's heart went out to him, but there was work to be done. Marissa and the others had to be north of the island by now, en route to the shores on the far side of the Sea of Ysre. They'd have to hurry to catch up. Sal turned southward and continued on, the rest of the rebels falling in behind him.

  As he approached the Stone in the crossroads between the Mainway and the Learned Concourse, the shol'tuk that had fought with them splintered off, stealing back into the shadows of their normal lives. As they left, Sal noted that the whispers continued -- el'Yatza, el'Yatza, el'Yatza. He looked back behind him to see how Retzu was taking it... but the assassin was still frozen in place, now at the very back of the procession. Sal had to crane his neck to see the du'Nograh twin, wedged between Jaren and Senosh, who were urging him forward and goggling the sides of the street as he had been.

  Sal could barely see Retzu himself, but the whispers -- now chants -- of el'Yatza continued, stretching well in front of him where the people of Bastion could not even see the assassin.

  But they could see his sodu, the Prism.

  Oh, dear God in Heaven.

  The looks of scorn continued, though they became fewer and farther between, the further south he pressed. But that reality gave him no peace, because more and more, the contempt was replaced by awe and even reverence. Sal couldn't get out of the city fast enough.

  The Camp of the Unmarked was a shambles, witness to the hasty departure of the people of Caravan. He turned west toward the harbor as soon as he cleared the stockades that marked the northern entrance to the Camp. Thankfully, it appeared that Marissa and the rebels had left them a ship or two to catch up with. He could just make out the pinprick of a mast in the water, rocking in the waves... not a bit?

  Sal picked up the pace, clearing tents at a brisk walk, then a jog, then a run as it became evident to him why the mast wasn't rocking.

  The ship had been sunk.

  The rebels spread out along the western edge of the empty camp, crying out in disbelief and distress to varying degrees, desperate the search the water for survivors but too horrified by the debris field to move forward. Sal's stomach lurched, and his head was abuzz with questions, exclamations, fears that he dared not even allow to solidify in his mind. Unable to touch Sapphire in his state, he raised a shaky hand to his earring. He heard himself calling Marissa's name. Repeatedly. But it sounded so distant in his ears, so unreal, that it didn't even seem to be coming from him.

  Sal...

  He started at the address, casting his eyes about.

  Over there, Sal.

  His eyes settled on a female face, one seemingly familiar to him... Patrys. It was Patrys. Why was it so hard for him to focus right now?

  Look over there, she repeated, pointing south and east toward the center of the camp. His eyes followed her finger dumbly, falling on a number of dragons, descending upon the makeshift street in front of Delana's tent.

  Before he even realized that he was walking, Sal had made it halfway to the pavilion He noted, somewhat disconnectedly, that most of the dragons had Changed,
taking on a more humanoid appearance and making room for their fellows and the newcomers. One of the dragons, a blue one... Athnae? She approached him and placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. She knew.

  Had she always known?

  The prophecy... the one about the Prism losing... something...

  "What was the name of the ship?" he demanded of nobody in particular.

  "What?" came a voice to his side.

  Sal turned to look at the voice. Just some guy. Sal didn't know him, but he was as likely a candidate as any. "The ship. The ship that was heading up our fleet."

  "The... ummm... the... uhhh... Emerald Rose, milord Prism."

  The Emerald Rose.

  The stolen Rose to whither lone. The Prism darkened and undone.

  "Marissa was on that ship," he said brokenly, turning back to Athnae. "Wasn't she?"

  Athnae offered a pained smile, the movement catching the morning sunlight in the shimmering scales on her face. "You should speak to the Master."

  "Who?"

  "Our Master, Cao Tzu."

  The name didn't register with Sal -- really, nothing did at the moment -- but he moved forward anyway, pushing through the tent flap to the near empty room beyond.

  Much of the important things had been packed up and sent ahead. With the rest of the Cause. With Marissa. There were a few footlockers in the spacious tent, but they were flung open and empty. All the bulky furniture remained -- the bed, the table, the chest of drawers -- as did Reit, lying on his cart. Argue as they might have, Jaren and Menkal could not convince Retzu to send his brother on with the rest of Caravan. He was the last of Reit's family to remain with him, after all, and he simply would not be parted from him.

  A figure dressed in simple brown linens stood near the cart with his back to Sal, one leathery hand laid gently -- so gently -- upon Reit's chest. "This wasn't supposed to happen," he said softly, tears evident in his voice. "Menkal... Reit... so many things. None of it was supposed to happen."