Shattering the Ley

by Joshua Palmatier

  Until recently.

  Baron Arent’s hands gripped the arms of the seat so hard the knuckles were white, but he kept his rage in check, barely allowed it to color his voice, although everyone in the room flinched when he spoke.

  “Diverted where?”

  His gaze fell on Augustus.

  Augustus stood in the deathly silence, his chair legs scraping backward on the amber floor. He folded his hands before him, composed his ancient features, his robe rustling. A tic at the side of Arent’s mouth twitched. The Prime Wielder had aged in the past few years, his face lined and haggard, gray hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. The architect of the Nexus had been kept busy as he and his Primes stormed through Erenthrall, establishing Flyers’ Towers in all of the major cities. Not only in the Baronies, but in the surrounding nations to the east, west, and south as well. He’d even extended the ley network to the western and southern continents.

  But the progress had come at a price, visible in the Prime’s hunched shoulders and heard in the gravelly timber of his voice. Not even the life-extending properties experienced by submersing himself in the ley—as Baron Arent did too, with his own secret ley bathing chamber connected to his rooms—had been able to counter it.

  The arrogance remained, though, an arrogance and pretension Arent had learned to tolerate. It was a fair price to pay for complete control of the ley.

  “I’m afraid, my Baron, that we do not know.”

  “You don’t know.”

  A statement, flat, no inflection whatsoever. If his seat had not been made of marble, the chair arms beneath his fingers would have cracked.

  Augustus shot a glare toward Arent, nearly a challenge. “We don’t know.”

  “How hard have you looked?”

  “The better part of the last year!” Augustus barked. Everyone in the room flinched. No one raised their voice in this room, not with the Baron present.

  Augustus closed his eyes and for the first time Arent began to wonder if perhaps he spoke the truth. He had not believed the Wielder ten months ago when parts of Confluence went dark, had been certain the Prime lied after East Forks.

  But now a niggling doubt slithered beneath his anger, slid down into the core of his chest, down beneath his breastbone, and bit down hard. Perhaps this wasn’t a power play by the Primes, as he’d assumed. Perhaps he’d let his hatred of the Primes—of his dependence on them for the continued use of the Nexus—color his judgment. The recent instability in the ley had only emphasized that dependence. If the ley were faltering. . . .

  The thought sent a lick of fear in the wake of the doubt.

  “—thought we’d backtracked the fluctuation in the Nexus that produced the outage in Confluence and East Forks,” Augustus was saying in a tightly controlled voice. “It appeared that someone had tampered with the alignment inside the Nexus—”

  “Who?”

  Augustus’ eyes narrowed angrily at the interruption. “I don’t know.”

  Lowering his voice, Arent asked, “Who could have made such an adjustment? Who would have the power, the skills?”

  Augustus stilled, lips pressed tight together. He didn’t want to answer, even though everyone within the chamber knew. “Only a Prime could alter the alignment with such precision. Only a Master.”

  Arent straightened in his seat. “One of yours? One of the Primes?” You yourself, he implied with his tone.

  Augustus struggled to choose his words as the rest of the Primes in attendance shifted uncomfortably in their seats. But finally he raised his head, saying grudgingly, “I would have argued otherwise until today. But now. . . . To make most of Stone, along with parts of Eld and Green, go dark, the alignment would have to have been changed from within the Nexus itself, and only Erenthrall’s Primes have such access.” He said nothing to Arent’s unspoken accusation, but Arent saw that he’d heard it by Augustus’ look.

  “We have a traitor in our midst.”

  Everyone turned toward the new voice. The Primes straightened in fear. All except Augustus, who merely pursed his lips.

  Arent felt the niggling doubt begin to grow, coldness seeping outward from beneath his breastbone, touching his lungs, his heart. “Captain Daedallen,” he acknowledged.

  The captain of the Dogs turned his gaze on Arent and the Baron’s eyes narrowed.

  “Everyone is dismissed except for Prime Augustus and Captain Daedallen.”

  Simple and clear, the command emptied the room within moments. As soon as the last person departed, Arent stood and descended from his seat, motioning Daedallen and Augustus to one of the wide windows. Sun slanted off of the amber floor, made it semi-transparent, the thick glass that protected them from the winds at this height perfect, without a single bubble or distortion, made so by the Tapestry and the ley. Arent sidled up to the glass, stared out from the height at the surrounding towers of Grass.

  And in the center of them all. . . .

  Arent turned his attention to the heart of Grass, where he could see the nearly blinding, pulsing white light of the Nexus. He knew a building stood in the center of that white light, although he couldn’t see it. The heavy, thick crystal of the dome that covered the Nexus amplified and intensified the light, making it impossible to see into the Nexus from above.

  Behind him, he felt Augustus halt a few paces away, knew that Daedallen stood behind the Prime, ready in the event Augustus did anything . . . interesting. Although now Arent thought that possibility slim; he believed in Augustus’ sincerity, even though he knew Daedallen had his own suspicions.

  “If you have been searching since the incident at East Forks,” Arent said calmly, “then you must have discovered something. I find it nearly impossible to believe otherwise.”

  Augustus heard the warning. And the threat that underlay the simple words. “Of course, my Baron.”

  “Who?”

  “As I said, I don’t know. One of the Primes, assuredly, but—”

  Arent turned, stopped Augustus with a look. The Prime had heard the threat but he’d ignored it, too secure in his power over the ley, in the city’s reliance on it. In the Baronies’ reliance on it and, steadily growing, the nations beyond. Which is why Arent had grown to hate the Primes; he knew he relied on their cooperation too much. The Wielders had grown so strong that he was no longer certain the Dogs were enough to keep them in check, to keep them complacent. Even after the viciousness of the Purge.

  Arent tried not to grind his teeth at Augustus’ knowing face.

  “You misunderstand me,” he murmured. “On purpose, I think.”

  Augustus merely straightened, so Arent continued, turning away, back toward the cityscape.

  “One of the Primes, yes. But even a Prime would not attempt something of this magnitude alone. They have nothing to gain from it. They must be aiding someone else, and there are only six others within the Baronies who would dare to meddle with the ley lines. They are the key to the Baronies’ dominance of the continent, to the known lands beyond. Only six would have the means and the ability to infiltrate the Nexus, to place one of their own within its walls. It must be one of the Barons.” Arent drew in a steadying breath, anger and fear so close to the surface that he could hear it vibrating in his voice. Once again, as with the Kormanley, it came back to the Barons. Except this time, the attack was more subtle, harder to deflect, harder to discern. He would have to rely on the Primes, on their cooperation, when their allegiance was already in question.

  But he could not let Augustus see that doubt, that fear.

  “So I ask you again,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Who?”

  Augustus shook his head. Arent could see his reflection trembling in the glass before him, knew that it was not in fear of his Baron, nor fear for his life, but anger. Anger that someone had dared to disturb his Nexus, had dared to upset his balance of power.

&nbs
p; “I don’t know for certain,” the Prime Wielder rasped, his breath barely a whisper. “The disruption came from the south, so one of the southern barons.”

  “Who?” Arent repeated, with force.

  Augustus sighed. “If I had to choose a prime suspect, I would say Baron Leethe.”

  Nineteen

  “AUGUSTUS HIMSELF COULD be the one who adjusted the alignment,” Daedallen muttered as Augustus stormed out the door of the chamber, leaving them alone.

  “I don’t believe so. He’s too visibly angry to be the traitor himself. No. Someone has infiltrated his Nexus, has intruded onto his exclusive domain, and he wants to know who as much as I do. He will spend all of his energies finding the traitor and figuring out a way to stop them—of stopping Leethe—of that I’m certain.”

  Daedallen considered the vacant doorway, mouth twisted into a frown, eyes narrowed. The expression accentuated the scars on his right cheek where a dog had mauled him; it made his face dark and ugly.

  He turned back to Arent. “What do you want me to do?”

  Arent placed his hand against the glass, felt its chill as he stared down at the glow of the Nexus, brow furrowed. “One of the Barons is meddling with powers they have no right to touch. I need to know which one. Send the Hounds to all of the Baronies, not just the southern ones. Tell them to find out which Baron has betrayed us. And what that Baron is doing with the ley. With my ley.”

  At Daedallen’s silence, he looked over his shoulder. “You wish to say something?”

  “We already know it is Baron Leethe,” Daedallen growled. His anger was barely restrained, his hand flexing near his sword. “We’ve known he works against you since his miraculous escape from the Amber Tower during the Kormanley attack. We should have sent the Hounds after him then!”

  “Baron Leethe was behind the Kormanley, yes. But the Barons banded together after the attack in the tower. If one of them had died at the hands of a Hound, nothing would have stopped them from tearing Erenthrall down stone by stone.” Daedallen bristled, but Arent cut him off. “You know we cannot stand against their combined forces, even with the Wielders under our control. The Barons would overwhelm us. I barely managed to distract them from their rage with the Purge here in the city. By the time that ended, there was no longer a reason to release the Hounds. The Kormanley attacks had ended.”

  Daedallen’s jaw clenched and he turned away.

  Arent sighed and forced himself to relax. “You know all this. We’ve had this argument before. We cannot take Baron Leethe down unless he stands alone. His death, suspicious or not, would only drive the Barons into an allegiance against us. I spent too much time using the Hounds and the Dogs to break the Barons down and seize control in my youth to let it all fall apart now. And I am not convinced he is acting alone. He may have one of the other Barons behind him already, perhaps Calluin. I need to know who he is working with, and what it is they intend to accomplish by disturbing the ley. Enough time has passed that I feel the Hounds can find this out for me, without rousing the Barons from their complacency.”

  Daedallen considered this in silence. He clearly wanted to protest, but refrained, asking instead, “And what of the traitor here? The Prime?”

  Arent grimaced and shoved away from the glass, motioning Daedallen to fall into step beside him as he exited the amber Meeting Hall at a slow walk. “We don’t have access to the Nexus, to the Primes and their inner workings. We’ll have to leave finding that traitor up to Augustus.”

  Daedallen’s expression soured. “Even if he does discover who the traitor is, I don’t trust him to reveal that to me. Or you.”

  “Then sic the Dogs on him. On all of them. Follow the Primes. Follow the Wielders if you want. Track their movements and find out who the traitor is yourself first.

  “And when you find him, bring him to me.”

  The Hound stood on the station’s platform, perfectly still, his eyes ranging over all of the passengers waiting for the next barge, taking in their clothing, their facial expressions, their scowls as they glanced up toward the sunlight to judge the time before craning their necks to peer down the pulsing white line of the ley, searching for the next barge. The station lay in Grass, so the clothes worn were fine, the women dressed in linen and silk, the men in tweeds and wools, not the coarse sackcloth of those from the lesser districts in Erenthrall. The Hound wore wool, in a quality a shade less than those around him, although no one would notice the distinction. His jacket hid the daggers at his wrists, the knives at his waist; the folds of the hood hid the bulge of the short blade strapped to his back.

  Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned, the motion measured, one hand sliding beneath the jacket, but paused when he saw the boy staring up at him. His shock didn’t register on his face. Most people never noticed him. He made certain he blended in, his manner and demeanor forgettable, melding into the flow of the everyday around him, tweaking that unawareness with a push and a suggestion on the Tapestry. He’d trained for this, had excelled at it. The fact that the boy had picked him out of the surrounding bustle meant the boy had talents his parents would likely never realize and he would never use, talents the Hound had honed.

  “Who are you?” the boy asked. He wore a small cap, his hands tucked behind his back as he rocked back and forth onto his toes and heels. His eyes were innocent and wide, staring up at the Hound in pure curiosity.

  The fact he knew the Hound was different meant he was intelligent as well, even though he couldn’t be more than eight years old . . . about the same age as when the Hound had been taken himself.

  The Hound glanced toward the boy’s mother, two steps away, her arms loaded with bundles and a basket, her attention on the ley line. He could take the boy now and she’d never know, steal him and return to the den with him so that the other Hounds could train him, mold him, teach him to use his talents, as the Hound had been taught.

  But that wasn’t his purpose at the moment. He had a task, one that could not be delayed. He had a scent and a destination: Baron Leethe in Tumbor.

  The Hound turned back to the boy and smiled. “I am no one.”

  The boy frowned, brow furrowing, another question rising to the surface—

  But a bell clanged, announcing the arrival of the next barge. It surged down the ley, faster than a horse and cart run wild, slowed suddenly, those on board lurching, and glided to the edge of the platform. Shaped like a ship but with a flat bottom like a raft, its side gates opened and people spilled forth, those on the platform stepping forward.

  The mother turned sharply, her mouth pursed in irritation. “Sam, what are you doing? Come here, the barge has arrived.”

  She never looked up at the Hound. He doubted she even realized he was there, even when he motioned Sam forward. Hounds were not meant to be seen until it was too late.

  The boy trailed after his mother as they climbed onto the barge, glancing back once. The Hound slid onto the same barge through a different gate, distancing himself from the boy, feeling the presence of the ley throbbing beneath his feet.

  When the barge lurched forward, picking up speed, all thoughts of the boy vanished. It would take merely four days to reach Tumbor by barge, a costly journey. But he’d been told speed was of the essence. What he would find there he did not know.

  But he was prepared for anything.

  Dalton lurched upright, a cry escaping his lips as the last tattered white remnants of his dream surged through and overwhelmed him. He flailed in the blankets wrapped around his arms and torso, trying desperately to escape the fear that seized his chest, his heart thundering in his ears. His legs swung free, out over the edge of the bed, and with another startled cry he tumbled out onto the floor.

  He sobbed into the warmth of the blanket pulled tight across his lower face where he landed. His limbs trembled, as they always did now after a dream—with fear, with hatred, with t
error.

  He heard someone scratch softly at the door to his room, call out, “Father? Are you all right? I heard something fall.” The door began to creak open.

  He stifled his next sob, choked down its bitterness, and smoothed his pain-twisted face into one of harsh implacability. He wiped the tears and sweat from his cheeks with the blanket and began to untangle himself from its grip.

  “Father?”

  “Here, Dierdre,” he said gruffly. He disliked the remaining members of the Kormanley calling him Father, but he couldn’t get them to stop. But perhaps it was appropriate. The Dogs had been vicious in their Purge, seizing members of his cells with surprising rapidity, although with unsurprising brutality. His entire network had been on the verge of decimation when—after surviving his plunge into the Tiana to escape the Hound—he’d finally rounded up those few who had survived, like Dierdre, and sequestered them away with himself in one of the many caverns where the Kormanley had held their secret meetings.

  Now, the remains of the Kormanley resided in the husk of a building in West Forks—Dierdre, Dalton, and three others. The rest of those Dalton had saved from the Dogs had scattered. Dalton dared not even contact the members of the original Kormanley. Many of them, including Ischua he’d discovered, had died in the Purge, mistaken for members of the more violent Kormanley under Dalton’s command. Dalton himself rarely left the flat they’d taken over. Though twelve years had passed since the attack at the Baronial Meeting, he still feared a passing Dog might recognize him.

  And his work was not done. The attack may have failed, his organization destroyed, but the Kormanley were not finished.