Breaking Ties

by Vaughn R. Demont

  James’s decree that there can be only one Ra’keth at a time.

  “Take me to him.”

  “Or what? I owe you nothing and you have nothing to give me. And do not presume your…dalliance with His Majesty engenders any consideration. You are not worthy of him.”

  “I’ll believe that when he tells me personally.” Despite what that recurring nightmare says. But I have to think fast. She’s right, at least about not owing me anything. Dave is either on the outs with his family or isn’t wealthy enough to matter, so I can hardly ask him to take me to wherever the hell she was talking about in the Palace. The only thing I have to offer is something I won’t give her, because the staff is for James and…

  The staff is for the Ra’keth.

  “Besides, Dragon, I must be taken to see the Lightning Rod immediately. Protocol demands it.”

  She snorts sparks, which splash against the car’s hood. “And what protocol would that be?”

  “As you’ve pointed out so repeatedly, I’m a Dwarf.” I return the same smile she gave me in the club. “And my people were created by the Ra’keth for…what purpose?”

  As a dragon, and allegedly an expert on all things Keth, she’d have the answer, and considering her face scrunched up like she ate a bad pickle, she knows what I’m talking about. “The Stonekin were created as personal smiths to the Keth.” Anger flushes her face. “To present their masterworks for use by the Sorcerer Kings.”

  I grin now, tapping the staff that’s clipped again to my belt. “And as the Lightning Rod is currently without a proper focus, the House of Bremenschmeid humbly requests to offer our liege our latest, finest creation.”

  What follows is a long stream of draconic cursing and a rain of sparks that subsequently sets off every car alarm within a two-block radius. Considering we’re not too far from the Palace, and near a lot of high-end automobiles, the police will likely be on their way soon.

  She disarms the alarm on her own car and points severely at the passenger door. “Get in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Spencer

  December 20, 4:46 pm

  Oh shit.

  Oh shit shit shit.

  Oh shit.

  “Spencer, keep ’em closed.”

  I do, because I don’t want to open my eyes and confirmed that what just happened…just happened. I don’t want to believe that Dad killed someone right in front of me.

  “C’mon, walk along with me.” He takes me by the arm. “Keep ’em closed.” I’m led somewhere. I stumble a couple of times from not knowing where to step. My knees feel like I left them somewhere else, in another reality that a gunshot pushed me out of. “Stay there.”

  I hear a door close.

  “Eyes shut, Spencer. Now take off your shirt.”

  It’s enough to finally break the lock on my tongue. “Wh-what?”

  “Let’s just say there’s something on your shirt that I’d rather you didn’t see, okay?”

  “Dad? What did you do?” He pulls the shirt off me. It’s a little cold in this room. I don’t hear any traffic, so I’d have to guess we’re still inside wherever we are and that there isn’t an open window anywhere near. “God, please say you didn’t kill that guy.”

  “I didn’t kill that guy. Eyes shut.”

  I know he’s lying.

  Something’s put in my hands—fabric, I can make out sleeves. I start to put it on. “Not yet.”

  Something wet rubs my cheek, my forehead, just under my right eye, my chin. “Okay, now you can put it on.”

  The process is slow, methodical. I actually have to stop and remember how to put on a shirt, work buttons. The fabric is smooth, maybe silk. I have to wonder where he got it. “Dad…”

  “Not yet.” He takes me by the arm again, leading me. I hear more doors shut, and the path isn’t straight; we wobble and curve and swerve our way through rooms. He doesn’t speak as we move, other than occasional instructions of direction changes, or asking me to step high.

  “Dad, what did you do?”

  “Spencer.” He sighs. “Son, I know you don’t really want the answer to that question. Let’s just say the Cobalt Order probably isn’t something to worry about anymore. Don’t ask why, that’s a story you don’t want to carry, and it’s taking every ounce of willpower I’ve got not to tell you.” His voice has the edge he had a few years ago, when Selah stole his mind, when he nearly killed me. “Now stop asking.”

  I couldn’t say how long we moved through corridors, rooms. If we were taking a direct route through the place or avoiding people or what. I know that I’m under no compulsion to keep my eyes closed and that I can have the truth if I just look and see.

  But I don’t want to see. Not this.

  I can figure out what probably happened, but until I open my eyes, it’s just a theory, a story I’d maybe tell later, with some boasts thrown in, because maybe, if it’s a story, then it’s not really happening to me. If I don’t open my eyes, if I don’t see the blood splattered on my face, on my clothes, then I can tell myself it didn’t happen. I can come up with something improbable, but still possible, something to squeak through the cracks of reasonable doubt.

  I won’t have to accept that my father may very well have killed a lot of people to get me out of here. I should be okay with it, really. There are a bunch of movies about this very thing, though the badass action-hero father is rescuing his daughter or avenging her honor. That’s what stories tell us now, that it’s okay to take so many lives if you’re protecting an innocent, if you’re protecting your family. People would tell you that, you know?

  But those people didn’t feel their fathers wipe blood off their face and possibly brain matter from just under their eyes. And my father knows that. He’s a violent asshole who walked out on me and my mother, but he knows that. And I don’t know what to do.

  We enter a garage. I can hear the echo of our steps, the openness of the air, the change in temperature. I hear him tap a car door, the locks instantly giving way to him, the alarm bleeping once, futilely, before his special, personal Coyote trick kills it off.

  He helps me into the passenger seat, buckles my seat belt. I’m suddenly reminded of long drives to arcades that had Skee-Ball, where he’d run petty scams so I’d have money for the machines.

  “Keep ’em closed.”

  He gets in, starts the car by tapping the ignition, his knack of opening any lock applying to automobiles as well. The engine doesn’t roar, it’s quiet, thrumming, probably high-end, as the passenger seat is leather. The imposed darkness of my closed eyes takes a brighter tint a few seconds later, signaling we’re outside.

  “Dad?”

  “You can open your eyes now.”

  We’re in a Jaguar, not Rourke’s Jag, and we’re definitely in Destry Bay, given the traffic. Dad is cloaked in a fine suit, to give the impression he didn’t steal the car. Reflexively, I cloak in a similar fashion when he looks away, not for the same reason. He’s taking streets that’ll lead us into Grunstadt. His face is calm, but every now and then he glances at me and smiles.

  I want to ask him. I should ask him. “Dad?”

  “Yeah, son?” His voice is weary, like when he’d come home from work. I never knew if he had a real job or was running games in Tolon Park or around Allora. He gave up the Feud for Mom and me, as long as he could, at least. He looks at me, smiles. “Never thought I’d see Rachel’s eyes again.” He gives my nose a playful tap.

  “Dad, we need to talk about what happened.”

  “Just…a couple more minutes, okay?” He takes a deep breath. “Just a couple more minutes where we’re a father and son in an eighty-thousand-dollar Jag and, I don’t know, on our way to a boardwalk down in Jersey for old times’ sake. Sorry it’s not the ’Vette. Got stolen again. Damn Foxes.”

  I should worry about saving James, gettin
g to him, but that doesn’t feel like a priority. “Dad, we can’t go to Jersey.”

  “I know.” His grip on the steering wheel tightens for a few seconds. “Just let me have it, okay?” He sets his jaw, the cracks growing in this temporary facade. “I didn’t have it with Hank, Thornton never wanted it, just…” He shows teeth while hitting the steering wheel. “Just let me have it with you a couple more minutes, okay?”

  “Dad?”

  Another long breath, a few more seconds of silence as we get on the expressway leading into Grunstadt and eventually the Benedict. “Yeah?”

  I sag in the car seat, look at him—at me—catch my blue eyes, my mother’s eyes in the side view. “Lie to me?”

  My father glances at me, nods silently and proceeds to tell me everything. Everything. The sidhe he beat to a bloody pulp to get the manor’s address, every look of fear, every thread cut for Fate, every bullet expended, the satisfaction taken in ending almost a thousand combined years of life. A Bard must hear the stories, after all, no matter their subject or violence, no matter how it’ll change the way a son will view his father, no matter how damaged the old fractured, frayed, less-than-perfect image of my father will now become.

  So I did him that service in my request. I gave him the gift of uncertainty, asked a Coyote to give a fabricated account, so for a little longer he’s not some violent killer. There’ll be the chance it was all a lie, that he just snuck his way into the Cobalt Order’s house, got me out of there and knocked out the sidhe for his trouble, nothing more.

  I know that’s not the truth, but for saving my life, for my father’s sake, I’ll try to believe.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  James

  December 20, 6:13 pm

  “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?”

  I’m on my back, knocked there by a magical strike for the fourteenth time in the last half-hour. Tyras, Ras, whatever he is, is thirty feet away, his arm sheathed in flame. Usually when you take a fireball to the chest, it should kill you. And, normally, I’d think that a wall of ice would be a fantastic way to prevent such a fate, but instead I…

  A few minutes ago I’d looked across the room, at a spot on the carpet near a scorch mark from a previous attack, and shouted, “There.” Within the space of a blink, I was there. After that I was subsequently knocked on my ass by an unseen force. And that’s why I’m currently on my back.

  “You should have gone behind me, above me, out of my line of sight. Despite our power we are human and limited by our human sense—”

  “There.” I’m behind him. “For—”I sink to my knees.

  Getting kicked in the bollocks will do that to a man.

  “Unless of course your opponent openly challenges you to—”

  I glare at him and say, “Force.”

  Tyras flies through the air, not of his own volition, his back colliding with a wall, followed by him falling on his face. Pain can be inspiring, you know.

  “Something I learned from a Coyote? Never monologue or gloat when you’re in melee range.” Seriously, Spence lost so many characters in Dungeons & Dragons to smartass remarks.

  Tyras grunts, trying to get up, but he stumbles, crying out in pain. “You broke something.” Weakly, he gestures me over.

  “Like I’m going over there so you can hit me with something else.”

  He grins then grimaces. “I would applaud your distrust, but a Keth cannot heal himself with magic. And curse the Mad One for decreeing it.” He beckons me over again. “Please, I give you my word the lesson is over for now.”

  So I stagger over to him, because I’m still recovering from pain too. I kneel next to the fallen Keth and place my hand on his shoulder. “Tyras, you is no hurt fix heal now yes.”

  I can feel the spell work, but Tyras blinks at me in shock. “By the Throne, you are terrible at this.”

  “I only had a teacher for six months, and he wanted me to figure out my own style.”

  He nods and sits with his back to the wall, catching his breath. I sit next to him. “The Recluse, who freed us all from the Storm God’s wrath.”

  I nod. “Killed Zeus or something, I never got the details, other than the other gods being pissed about it.”

  “When he usurped the throne from the Sculptor, yes.” He glances at me. “Your mentor prevented an alliance between his predecessor and Zeus. The world would be covered by an ongoing storm, reigniting Zeus’s influence, and the Sculptor would use his army of golems to maintain control over humanity. For the Recluse’s trouble, he was marked for death by the gods.” Tyras sighs, rubbing his collarbone. “Not to claim that he was saintly. He made many foolish mistakes, not the least of which was stealing from my hoard.” His eyes flash serpentine for a second until he settles himself. “Would you attempt that feeble restorative again?”

  “If we’re in a different realm, why do all the decrees still apply?”

  “They apply to existence itself. The Mad One decreed no sorcerer could heal themselves with magic, to prevent his enemies from waving off his attacks. His student, the Usurper, quickly took advantage.” He winces as he tries to move his arm. “Surely there is something in that foolish fantasy of yours that allows one to heal another.”

  “For priests, yeah. Mages aren’t so much with the healing in that game.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I have never taken a student so devoted to his khrazet.” He exhales through his teeth. “What is the name of magic?”

  “Sigil.” Thank God there’s no confusion about that, never a good thing when there is.

  “And who named it so?”

  “I did.”

  He literally growls. “Then. Speak. It.”

  “There’s a difference between naming a language and being flu—”

  “No there is not,” he roars. “Not for us! Stop thinking like a…human. You have taken the throne. Now sit upon it and declare your will before someone decides you’re not worthy.”

  “I WANT TO GO HOME!”

  I can feel the energy building, swirling, chaotic and emotional, and crackling with electricity, but it’s mine and from my will. I send it at whatever barrier is between this realm and the world I know, the energy like sharp claws tearing at the fabric between them and…

  Then nothing happens.

  And Tyras laughs. Then he laughs louder, occasionally sputtering from grunts of pain. “You stupid boy, you’ve caught yourself in your own trap.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your decree. The world can have only one Ra’keth. It would appear by coming to this realm, you’ve taken a Ra’keth out of the world, so another must rise to take the Throne.” He keeps laughing. “Now…now your own decree won’t allow you to return!”

  I blink at him. “There’s another Ra’keth already?”

  “The poor fool might not even know of their fate or, well, lack of one now.”

  “Don’t you guys automatically know when there’s a new Ra’keth? Isn’t that supposed to be a dragon’s job?”

  “We have apparently not found him yet.” Tyras shows his teeth, which look sharper than before. “Or someone is not sharing.”

  “I thought dragons knew what all the other ones did.”

  “That is as it should be, but the clans are not always cooperative when attempting to gain my favor. There is a new Ra’keth, for better or worse, and you will not be allowed back until they are dead. By your hand.”

  I grit my teeth, try the working again, to no avail—several more times, in fact, to Tyras’s amusement. After the tenth try I kick the wall, which only serves to aggravate me further. “I’m not going to kill someone.”

  “You’ve already killed three Ra’keth.”

  “Two. I did not kill Cale—”

  “So it’s not beneath you. How many people do you think perished during your last e
scapade? When you decided that the Snow Clan could work magic if they saw fit? I thank you for not informing them of that. Balance is difficult enough among the clans.”

  “I was possessed! I didn’t cause that storm.”

  “What of the storm before that? Where you usurped the Frozen River? Are your hands truly so clean? Innocents have died by your hand so you could secure the throne, for you to…what? Hide? Cower?” He gets up from his seated position, a little wobbly, but his gait much surer. “You ended the world.”

  “It had to be done! The tapestry of existence was coming apart.”

  “Because you condensed the Fates into one entity.”

  I fold my arms. “It was screwed up before that.”

  “Though it might’ve survived a few decades longer.”

  “Your council asked me to end the world. Well, Jutte did. She even phrased it as a humble request.” I lean against the wall I’d previously kicked. “It had to be done or it would’ve been the end of everything.”

  “Exactly. We are sorcerers. Apart from humanity. We must ignore their rules occasionally if we are to do what must be done. This new Ra’keth, do you believe that he or she is prepared for the responsibility that has just been put upon them? Imagine if some corrupting influence got to them first. By the Throne, James, take responsibility.”

  “So I’m supposed to kill some random person because of that?”

  “If it keeps things in balance?” He nods simply. “Yes.”

  I shake my head. “Even if I was willing to do that, it’s a moot point. I can’t go back anyway, remember?”

  His eyes flash serpentine. “You cannot, no.”

  “Go back as a dragon?” Well, it does make sense that dragons could enter and exit this realm, considering that it was made for them in the first place. But if that’s true…

  Oh damn it all.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, sigh. “I could’ve turned into a dragon and left anytime I wanted, couldn’t I?”