Shattering the Ley

by Joshua Palmatier

  And now, suddenly, she could relax.

  “Wear it well, Kara Tremain,” he said. “Make the Wielders proud.”

  Kara nodded, her chest too tight for words, her struggle to hold back tears too intense. She walked from the hall slowly, speeding up as she reached the doors and pushed out into the sunlight before realizing she had nowhere to go. Not close. She thought of Cory—realizing that she’d barely seen him in the last two years, as her studies grew steadily more intense, even though they’d met on a regular basis before that—but he was three districts away, in Confluence, and besides, he’d recently tested into the University, a surprise for them all. Her heart was beating so fast and hard she couldn’t simply return to her rooms, but she’d made few friends at the college, too reclusive after her parents’ deaths, not to mention the two years’ difference in age between her and the other students when Ischua first brought her here. Yet she still wanted to leap in joy, shout in triumph, laugh until her throat was raw.

  Instead, she retreated to the nearest shadows, beneath a portico, where she knew few of the students or instructors passed. She trembled in awe, too ecstatic to move. Even breathing was difficult. She ran her hands down the fine fabric of her Wielder’s jacket and tried to suppress the laughter that threatened to burst forth. After four grueling years under the hands of the Wielders, studying the ley, the stones like those within Halliel’s Park, and the nodes in the city, she had finally been granted her purple jacket. Apprentices wore green jackets, to signify they were training to be Wielders and to make certain they were given the respect they deserved, but only after passing the week-long, grueling tests—both academic and practical—were apprentices granted the purple jackets of a true Wielder.

  Kara had completed her exams five days before, had been hovering in alternating dread, despair, and excitement since. She knew she’d handled the practical aspects of the exam without issue. Ever since she’d been shoved into the well of ley in one of the nodes after her first month of training, she’d been connected to the ley in a way that she and the other Wielders barely understood. But the academic portions had nearly killed her. Mathematics and the underlying structures of the ley and how it was manipulated were easy; learning all of the rote historical dates and names and achievements had been enough to make her scream. Who cared which of the Barons of the surrounding lands had signed the concordance that ceded all control of the ley to the Wielders in Erenthrall under Baron Arent’s hand? And who cared that Wielder Antipithus had discovered a secondary ley field in the Steppe fifty-five years ago, giving rise to the Nexus at the island-city of Severen and providing the first step of Erenthrall’s expansion of control to the north? Although Kara did wonder how Prime Wielder Augustus had been around at the time to oversee the building of that node; Augustus barely looked forty. And Arent had been the Baron then as well, even though he appeared younger than Augustus! She’d asked but been summarily shut down, her adviser telling her it was information to which only the Primes were privy.

  She shrugged. It had happened long before Kara was born. She didn’t see why it mattered to Erenthrall today, especially not for a newly-jacketed Wielder.

  She ran her hand down the purple fabric once again and shuddered at the sensation.

  “Be careful, or you’ll wear it out before you even step onto the streets of Erenthrall.”

  Kara started and spun, thrusting her hands behind her back guiltily, then glared as Ischua chuckled and moved toward her. Afternoon sunlight lanced down between the arched columns of the portico, an open square surrounded by buildings beyond. A few students were working on their studies in the light, most with green jackets. Two of the Master Wielders paced sedately through the area, passing through the shade of the porches and covered walkways beyond.

  “I won’t wear it out,” she said with a mock scowl. “It’s too new.”

  Ischua laughed and shook his head. “I tried to make it here before they presented it to you, but my duties kept me. A Wielder should have someone to rejoice with when they don the purple jacket. I know you have few friends here, and since your parents’ deaths. . . .”

  Kara’s heart clenched at the old pain and a deeper hatred as Ischua’s voice grew somber. She tasted the ash of the fires from the park that afternoon, glanced to where she knew Ischua’s head was scarred from the explosion. He wore a simple rounded hat to cover the mark. He’d saved her and Cory that afternoon, although Cory’s parents had survived.

  She thought of that last night on the roof of the apartment building, Cory’s flushed face after he’d kissed her, the panic in his eyes.

  “My father would have been proud of me,” she said roughly, to break the awkward silence.

  “Your mother as well. Especially since you’ll make Master soon enough. They did mention Master’s robes, didn’t they?”

  She grinned. “How did you know?”

  “Because I could sense your power back in Halliel’s Park. I wouldn’t be surprised if the black cloak of a Prime is in your future. Although you shouldn’t rush such things. You’re already two years ahead of everyone else.”

  She gaped at him, speechless, her arms tingling at the thought.

  Ischua chuckled, then reached forward to grip her shoulder. “In any case, you should not be alone at a time like this. The purple jacket alone demands a celebration. Walk with me.”

  He tugged at her shoulder before letting his hand drop, a nudge that wasn’t necessary. Even if he didn’t wear the robes of a master, she would have come with him. The only reason she was here at the college was because of him; if he hadn’t been with them at the park, she wasn’t certain what would have happened to her.

  They passed out of the shadows of the portico into the afternoon sunlight, chatting as Kara self-consciously caught the envious looks of the green-jacketed students they passed. Ischua guided her to the gates of the college, out into the streets of the Light District. The towers of Grass rose into the sky to the northwest, the beacon of the Flyers’ Tower burning bright. Numerous flyers had taken to the skies—at least five that Kara could see—the hulls of the ships dark against the white clouds above. Their specialized sails glittered with leylight. Kara could feel the eddies the ships caused in the Tapestry if she stretched out her senses. She’d once thought that what she felt in her skin and through her feet, what she’d discovered she could manipulate, was the ley itself. She’d learned in her studies that it wasn’t, that the Tapestry was the basis of reality around her, the essence of what was real, both seen and unseen. The ley—the power itself—merely flowed along the Tapestry in prescribed courses, as rivers flowed along the land through channels dictated by the hills and valleys. And like rivers, the ley lines were malleable, subject to change if the lay of the land were altered in some way. Wielders manipulated the Tapestry to force the ley into the lines of power they wanted; the Masters at the University manipulated the Tapestry as well, although they could not feel the ley structure like the Wielders.

  It was one of many misconceptions the people of Erenthrall held about the Wielders, a misconception the Wielders encouraged. Like all of the specialized guilds, the Wielders held their secrets close, especially from the Masters at the University. Not even the apprentices learned everything, even those who passed the examination. Kara knew there were secrets revealed only to the Primes, such as the exact layout of the ley lines themselves—in Erenthrall, throughout the rest of the Baronies, and beyond—and the reason that both Augustus and Baron Arent appeared younger than they actually were.

  “Here we are,” Ischua said abruptly, motioning toward an unmarked wooden door, a small window set into it at shoulder height.

  Kara glanced around the unfamiliar streets. At some point during the walk, they’d drifted off of the common thoroughfares and into the alleys and side-ways. Like the rest of the district, the buildings were built of off-white granite accented with red-and-brown stones set in patterns along
the corners, around windows and doors, and with an occasional artistic flare in the middle of large walls, but here the granite was yellowed with age, the cobblestones of the walks dirtier.

  “Where is ‘here’?” Kara asked suspiciously.

  “Come in and see.”

  Ischua knocked on the door and the shutter on the small window flipped inward, a man’s gray eye filling the space, shooting between both Ischua and Kara before demanding, “Password.”

  “Copper.”

  The gray eye narrowed, fixed on Ischua, then vanished, the shutter snapping closed.

  A moment later, the door creaked open.

  Ischua motioned Kara forward. “After you.”

  Kara stepped into the door’s shadow, caught sight of the gray-eyed man standing behind it, then moved along a short entryway and pushed through a deep red curtain into—

  “A tavern?” she spluttered.

  Ischua grinned as he joined her. “Not just any tavern. This tavern caters only to those who have donned the purple jacket.” He turned to scan the few patrons at the tables and booths, all of whom were watching them even as they continued their conversations. Then the old Tender caught the attention of the burly bartender, drew himself up to his full height, and said pretentiously, “An order of the special brew, Ivens.” The bartender’s eyebrows rose. “We have a new Purple.”

  The patrons erupted in a general “Here, here!” and a round of applause. The bartender turned to a keg draped in a purple cloth embroidered in gold placed high up behind the massive bar as Ischua and Kara made their way to barstools. A few of the men and women present congratulated her on the way, one woman grasping her arm, a man clapping her on the back. By the time Kara slid onto the seat, the bartender presenting her with a mug that appeared to be made of bone, the same excitement she’d felt immediately after leaving the Wielders’ Hall gripped her again. She didn’t even hear Ischua order, but suddenly he held up his own mug—much plainer than hers—and toasted, “To donning the purple. May master’s robes be close behind.”

  They clicked mugs and then Kara took a swallow of the beer, nearly choking at the bitterness of the hops, but marveling at the smoothness. She had drunk beer before, of course—no green jacket could survive four years without eventually hitting one of the many local taverns for a glass to take the edge off a particularly grueling day—but she had never had anything as potent or aged as this.

  “It’s a little bitter,” she coughed.

  The bartender shook his head and wandered away. Ischua ignored her.

  “I have something else for you as well,” he said, fishing in one of the pockets of his robes. After a moment, he pulled out a stone and set it into her hands.

  It was the size of her fist, blue-black, with swirls of white in it.

  She hefted the stone, allowed herself to sense the energies of the Tapestry that flowed around her and through it, then squinched up her face in confusion. “What’s this for? Is this another test?”

  Ischua shook his head. “No more tests. Not today. Don’t you recognize the stone? It’s from Halliel’s Park. It’s the stone you told me didn’t belong there, nearly five years ago.”

  Kara’s heart stilled in her chest as some inexplicable emotion coursed through her, like the energy of the Tapestry and the ley. Her hands trembled, clenched unconsciously on the stone, and she looked up at Ischua as a strange ache filled her. “You kept it? All this time?” Her voice was ragged, and her eyes burned with tears.

  Ischua merely smiled. “Of course I did.”

  Kara didn’t know what to say, but she drew the stone closer to her body protectively. It carried with it a myriad of emotions, brought back memories of her father, who’d taken her to the park that day, and Cory, who’d felt so betrayed by her leaving to become one of the Wielders, even though they’d kept in touch.

  “So,” Ischua said, to break the awkward silence, “where did the illustrious Prime Wielders station their newest Wielder?”

  Kara ran her hands over the surface of the stone, then tucked it into one of the pockets of her jacket. “Eld District.”

  Ischua’s eyes narrowed. “Really? That’s . . . interesting.”

  Kara straightened where she sat, leaning forward. “Why?”

  Ischua glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, raising his mug to take a slow drink. He lowered his head, as if considering whether he should answer or not, then blew out a breath between his lips. “Because the Primes don’t usually allow Wielders to work in the same district where they grew up. You know how they are about keeping the Wielder secrets.”

  “‘No Wielder can know the location of all of the ley lines, nor all of the nodes,’” Kara recited.

  “Only the Prime Wielders know the true map of the ley, and most of those only know that of Erenthrall or their own city’s Nexus. Only Prime Augustus knows the full extent of the ley system, and he won’t share. The ley system is his creation and he intends to keep it that way.”

  Kara shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “You tried to map it yourself, didn’t you?”

  Kara took a hefty swig of beer, coughed harshly. “How did you know?”

  Ischua chuckled. “I don’t think there’s ever been a green jacket who hasn’t. What did you discover?”

  “That the ley system we can see being used for the barges—and now the flyers—and the nodes that dot the city are merely surface elements of a much larger system underground.” She sighed.

  Ischua nodded. “There are nodes throughout the city, ones that the general population in Erenthrall does not know about, or suspect.”

  Kara thought about what she’d sensed when Ischua had tested her, the lake of ley hidden beneath the city. “Like Halliel’s Park.”

  Ischua raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps.” But then he frowned. “But placing you in the Eld District is unusual. I would have expected them to station you somewhere north of Grass, away from all of the people that you knew growing up, away from any friends or family.”

  “I don’t have any family in Eld anymore,” Kara said. “The only friend I have is Cory, and I haven’t spoken to him since he was tested and sent to the University in Confluence a few months ago. I’ve been too busy.” She thought abruptly of Justin, but shoved that memory away. He’d never been found after disappearing that day, although she knew that his parents had continued the search, that they’d even continued their attempts to enlist the Dogs. Their efforts had yielded nothing. Justin was simply gone, as if he’d never existed.

  Kara shivered at the thought.

  Ischua settled his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She gave him a weak smile, then noticed that his attention had been caught by something over her shoulder.

  “Marcus!” he shouted, half-standing from the barstool and motioning someone over from the opposite side of the bar. “Marcus, come here. I have someone you should meet.”

  Kara twisted in her seat, then stilled.

  Marcus was another Wielder, his purple jacket dusty and worn with use, although he appeared to be only a few years older than Kara. His hair was a thick blond-brown, mussed up as if he’d just run his hands through it, and his eyes were a startling blue. He moved with a cool confidence, drawing away from another group of Wielders seated around a table in the far corner. His grin was easy and didn’t falter even when he caught sight of Kara and a slight frown of consternation creased his forehead.

  “Ischua,” he said in acknowledgment.

  “This is Kara Tremain,” Ischua said. “Freshly risen to the purple jacket . . . and stationed in the Eld District.” The gardener turned to Kara. “Marcus Renshaw, one of the Wielders in Eld. You’ll be working with him for the next few years.”

  Marcus held out his hand, the creases in his forehead gone. As they clasped forearm to forearm, a heady warmth rushed from Kara’s hand down through her ches
t, settling disconcertingly in her stomach. She gasped slightly, then caught Marcus’ eyes.

  “Welcome to the Eld node,” he said. “Find me when you arrive, and I’ll show you around.”

  “I don’t think I can do it,” Tyrus said without preamble as he dropped himself into the seat across the small café table from Dalton.

  Dalton glanced up from the news sheet he was reading, took in his fellow Kormanley’s appearance—pale, haunted, and shaken—and immediately motioned for the server. “A shot of Gorrani wine, please, the stronger the better.”

  Then he turned his attention to Tyrus. The slightly younger man looked as if he’d aged twenty years since he’d infiltrated the splinter sect of Kormanley, his hair gray and face pinched and lined with worry and tension. He sat slumped in his chair, staring at Dalton but without any indication that he actually saw him, his eyes distant, locked on some vision Dalton couldn’t see.

  “I can’t,” he mumbled to himself as the server arrived and placed the tall, narrow glass of wine on the table. “I can’t do it.”

  As soon as the server departed, Dalton asked, “Can’t do what?” Although he thought he already knew. He’d given the order, after all.

  Tyrus jerked, his focus snapping in on Dalton, then away as he checked to see if anyone sat nearby. They were outside one of the many cafés in Wintemeer, but Dalton had chosen a secluded section near the back, partially hidden behind a screen of dangling ivy. No one was near.

  Tyrus leaned forward. “They want me to plant a bomb on one of the barges. I can’t do it, Dalton. Running errands for them, passing along messages, even forging documents through my office is one thing, but this is entirely different. This bomb may kill people! Others have before this.”

  Dalton frowned in consternation. He nearly pointed out that forging documents and passing messages that led to the bombs the Kormanley had been setting off throughout the city for the last four years made Tyrus as culpable as those who planted the bombs in the first place, but restrained himself. Tyrus didn’t need any more doubt or guilt laid at his feet. He was already shaken up enough.