Broken Mirrors

by A. F. Dery

  The Lyntaran dropped down from the building, unsheathing a long, thin blade from his thigh, a grim smile curving his mouth.

  “You’re a long way from your safe little hole in the wall, old man,” he taunted as Malachi approached. “Who is keeping your little lady warm, eh?”

  Malachi’s eyes narrowed. Without further preamble, the Lyntaran brandished his blade and rushed towards him. He had one moment, one moment only, and he seized it, hurling the dagger at the black clad man, his whole consciousness gripped in a wordless prayer to deities unknown that the Raider wouldn’t just swat it out of the way with his blade, that he had not thrown it too soon or too wide.

  It hit slightly below the mark, lodging soundly into the man just under his throat. The Raider did not even appear to notice, did not even slow, as he closed the distance and thrust his blade home.

  “Hang on, my lord,” a panicked voice sounded in his ears. Malachi gasped, feeling as though an enormous weight were pressing down on his chest. It was hard to draw enough air, each breath a dizzying effort. Spots swam in the darkness before his eyes, pain pounded a dull drumbeat in his ribcage.

  He forced himself to peel open his eyes, trying desperately to remember where he was and what the hell was going on. Herold’s pale face loomed behind the spots that remained despite his persistent blinking.

  “Whaaaa?” he asked, trying to suck in another breath.

  “I’m so sorry my lord,” Herold babbled. “I rode over as soon as I could, as soon as I saw what you were doing, but the sentries were on me, and then you threw that dagger- and the sentries just- they just s-stopped- and I tried to knock that man aside but he was already s-swinging his sword-”

  “Dead?” he croaked on the next exhale.

  “No, my lord, you’re alive!” Herold all but sobbed. “And he lost his grip on his sword when I rode into him- but your arm- oh gods, my lord, I am SO sorry! And, er, my horse, it reared- it kicked you in the chest-”

  I’m going to die, Malachi thought grimly. Here and now, with an idiot babbling over me. I know I’m a wicked man, I deserve this horror. But my Maggie? What will she do without me?

  “He sliced off your arm, my lord!” Herold cried. “But it isn’t bleeding so…so…maybe it was a magic sword he used!”

  Malachi paused for thought at that one. He lifted his right arm, gingerly, and it at least felt like he was lifting something. But then, the mind does play tricks with missing limbs sometimes. He turned his head and waved his hand. Yep, still present and accounted for.

  Breathing was gradually growing a bit easier, though the pain certainly lingered. He tried to push himself up on his remaining elbow. It felt odd to feel his left shoulder twitch in sympathetic effort with no sensation of weight on the other end of it. It had been a while since he’d been armless.

  He took another deep breath and looked again at Herold. The man was ashen faced and wide eyed and slack jawed, the very picture of horror. Under any other circumstance, Malachi was sure he would have laughed.

  At the moment though, the young man had just saved his life, and even he was not quite that vulgar.

  “Soldier, I haven’t had my real left arm in twenty years,” he said, as gently as he could. “If you can find where it landed, I can hopefully repair and reattach it.”

  Herold stared. His lips trembled as though he meant to speak, but no further movement, or sound, accompanied them.

  “I don’t really have that same leg, either,” Malachi added absently. “The new one works much better than the old ever did. I suspect the original was a shade too short compared to the other, but what can you do?”

  Herold licked his lips and nodded slowly. “What can you do,” he echoed faintly. “I can…go look for your arm, my lord. It can’t be far.”

  “You do that,” Malachi nodded. He had the strangest feeling as the younger man stood and began to look around that Herold would likely be retiring from his newly formed meat army with alacrity.

  He turned his mind back to more important matters. He said the sentries stopped when my dagger hit that Raider.

  Malachi wanted to believe-and wanted everyone else to believe, especially that bloody barbarian neighbor of his- that his inventions were all science. In his heart of hearts, he believed, with a burning faith to rival that of any true believer, that it was possible, it had to be, it must be. Science, he believed devoutly, was its own “magic.”

  But he had not been able to find a way. His experiments had failed miserably. There was something in his cognition that was lacking, some vital piece of the puzzle he had not been able to even identify the real shape of, let alone find. Some things, basic things, worked as they ought. Steam really did power things, but keeping the water boiling? Flashes of light or turning certain switches or levers could give his machines directions- but how they “understood” those things? How they even sensed them?

  Thane would have called it sorcery. Malachi hesitated to use such crude terminology but…all right, it was sorcery. He sighed heavily to himself. He had discovered it- had used it- when his limbs had needed replacing. It was that or nothing. He chose “that.” Extending his newfound knowledge to his machines had been a stroke of brilliance, and he’d managed to bluster his way with incomprehensible terminology past even his Eladrian neighbor, who was too proud to admit stupidity (even in this case, it was actually deliberate obfuscation…and Malachi was sure he had to suspect it, but of course not could not prove anything without admitting to not knowing what the hell Malachi was going on about.)

  In any event, the sorcery that yoked his sentries to his service had been tampered with, that much was plain. Somehow the tie between he and they had been broken, control had been usurped- not just the magic aspect, but even the mundane had been broken into, violated.

  This was a problem. A big problem.

  “My lord,” Herold said tentatively. He gingerly held out a severed arm.

  “We need to return with speed, lad,” Malachi said, taking the arm from him almost as an afterthought. “Lady Margaret isn’t safe. Nothing is safe anymore. All my sentries must be disabled, every last machine, without delay. If the Lyntarans know…” His mouth went dry and he found himself utterly unable to continue.

  Herold nodded grimly, bending down to help his lord to his feet.

  “What should we do with…with those?” Herold asked, jerking his head in what Malachi assumed was the direction of the usurped sentries.

  “They must be dismantled, to prevent further mischief. They will no longer operate if all their main components are taken apart, they cannot work independently,” Malachi said. His voice came out matter of fact, but his words tasted like sawdust and his stomach felt sick.

  This is a nightmare. It can’t be happening. But it is.

  There was nothing else for it. He must return home, dismantle the sentries, and file a formal appeal for the High Lord’s assistance at once. He motioned to Herold and without a word, they turned back the way they came, less one decapitated troop.

  It took all of Malachi’s self restraint to agree to stop to rest that night. He pushed them both on as quickly as he dared, but it was still two more days before he was at last approaching home. About a mile out, he saw to his surprise his new diplomatic envoy, headed in the same direction.

  “There and back already, eh?” he asked when they’d caught up to them. He’d really expected it to take longer.

  “We didn’t exactly make it over the border,” the Council Elder said sheepishly. “We actually ran into a messenger of Lord Eladria’s quite near to it, though. I showed him your seal and he gave me a message to deliver to you.”

  Malachi raised an eyebrow.

  “You did say not to return without word from him, and we have word,” the Council Elder went on in a rush, pulling a sealed scroll of parchment from his satchel.

  Malachi took it from him gingerly, examining the crossed hammer and chisel imprinted in crimson wax. Definitely Thane’s seal. He broke it open and rea
d the scroll quickly, all blood draining from his face as he did so.

  Malachi:

  I know what you have done. Whatever you may think of my intelligence, a child could have put together the pieces of your treachery. When next we meet, it will be in either in the presence of the High Lord or on the field of battle. You have betrayed my trust beyond any breach I could have imagined. I deeply regret that you are not the man I once believed you to be. I was truly your friend once, but it seems you were never mine. So be it.

  T., Dread Lord of Eladria

  “Gods,” he muttered, reading it a second time in the vain hope the words would be different this time. They were not. The High Lord must have wrote to him about my letter. That has to be it. What absolutely wretched timing for all this to come together!

  “M-my lord?” the Elder ventured tentatively. “You didn’t want me to g-go back a reply, did you?”

  Malachi took in the man’s hopeful look and sighed. “No, I suppose not. I somehow doubt they would be forthcoming with us just now.”

  He restarted for home, reflecting darkly all the while on how he was fast running out of unburned bridges.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Thane was hardly surprised when he entered the Great Hall the following morning and found it absolutely packed. Not only was the previous queue of petitioners there, assembled as before on the benches set out for the purpose, but an entire crowd of curious onlookers, no doubt speculating about what disaster would befall their country this time, stood filling the aisles and the back of the hall, their noisy surplus spilling into the outer courtyard. Dogs barked, children wailed and men and women chattered amongst themselves.

  The moment he entered through one of the side doors towards the front of the hall, the magistrates rising from their seats at the sight of him, the din died down to a gratifying hush and a hundred pairs of brown eyes were riveted on their Dread Lord, grim and imposing in his ceremonial robes, his fully bared face a carefully composed blank. His gaze swept the crowd before him. His men were assembled far more strategically this time, even though none of the remaining petitioners were foreigners.

  But today’s judgment day was going to be different. Thane was ashamed at the prior weakness in his defenses. He had allowed himself to be vulnerable on a day sacrosanct to his own people, the first judgment day of the season. The pig-man should have been checked out more carefully, his defenses should have been better prepared for every eventuality. He felt sick at the thought that all this time, just anyone could have swept in and attempted whatever they liked, and if armed with one of his own inventions, gotten away with it! He had been proud, but was now humbled. There would be no further lapse.

  The hush grew deathly silent at his prolonged scrutiny. Judging by many of the reactions he saw, everything from grown men flinching, women shrinking back, and children hiding their faces in their mothers’ skirts, his thoughts had broken through the mask of neutrality he had attempted to wear. He composed himself yet again and gave a curt nod to his assembled people, then another to the chief magistrate, indicating he was ready to begin.

  Thane turned to seat himself at the great wooden throne and saw Kesara from the corner of his eye. She had been settled on a chaise, a guard on either side of her. A light blanket covered her legs and hid her bandaged feet from view; her dark curly hair had been braided and pinned up, and she wore a simple light brown dress that almost blended with the cushioning on the chaise. Her face was as enviably blank as he wished he could make his own, but he saw her discomfort plainly in the way she kept glancing at him and carefully avoided the many curious eyes of the crowd.

  He felt the urge to go over and reassure her, but of course, he could not. His lips curved briefly in a rueful, closed-mouth smile as their eyes met and then he immediately looked away before he could capitulate, unfolding himself with casual ease in the throne whose responsibilities were pressing on him so heavily.

  The ceremonial horn sounded and the chief magistrate intoned the words of the proceedings as he had done so many years before, but when at last he reached the end of his recitation, Thane rose to his feet and cleared his throat, causing the older man to spin in surprise and an answering ripple of startled confusion to make its way through the crowd.

  “The judgment day is a sacred tradition of our people,” Thane began bluntly. He spoke slowly and carefully, and although he made no effort to raise his voice, he had no doubt there was not a body present that could not hear him clearly, so profound was the silence now. “It is a tradition which was defiled at our last meeting by an outsider, arrived solely to do evil to your lord.

  “I assure you here and now that this outsider was promptly dealt with according to the laws of our people and will never again darken this hall, or any other.” Thane paused as an almost deafening cheer broke out amongst the assembly. He held up a hand and it quickly died down. “However, I must confess to you, my people, my undying shame that such a travesty was allowed to transpire in our midst. I hold my duty to each of you, those present and those hard at work on our soil, as my very highest duty and the most sacred trust. I had believed my caution to be sufficient on this most sacred of our days, but I also believed that Eladrian loyalty was without question and without compare. I have since had cause to revise this belief. You see, my people, we have been betrayed.” There was an outraged murmur, and he raised his voice slightly as he continued, “Not I alone, but all of us, for what betrays me, betrays you. I had not thought it possible before our last meeting here, but there is a traitor in our midst, a traitor who will be brought to justice swiftly, if my ax has any say.”

  He stepped back and surveyed the crowd as the din was renewed, each turning to his or her neighbor, talking loudly and gesturing adamantly, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. The expressions he saw on their faces ranged from shock to indignation to outright anger, but if he knew his people at all (and this, he was sorry to admit, he was forced to call into question after these last few days), it was not their lord who was the subject of their ire. It was the very idea of the treachery he had proposed, the unsupportable thought of one of their own betraying them yet walking freely in their midst.

  He gave them a few moments, forcing himself not to look at Kesara. The less attention called to her presence at this moment, the better, he decided. Not that anyone was really paying any attention to him anymore. Now the shocked faces had turned as angry as their quicker brothers’ had.

  He nodded to the chief magistrate. Again the ceremonial horn blew and the older man called them to order. The crowd settled at once into an expectant hush, but the tension in the room was palpable, the faces staring back at Thane reddened, the eyes hard.

  “I have had my chief steward draw together a comprehensive list of every Keep worker who has been in contact with non-Eladrians, be it in person or through written correspondence, since the woman who was abducted was hired into the Keep. For the past hour, my men have been gathering them upl and I will question them here before you today in pursuit of the truth.” Thane noticed looks and murmurs of approval in the crowd but continued without pause, “No Eladrian has ever been known to lie to their ruling lord. It is my hope not to be the first, but as I am already the first to be subject to such clear-cut treachery by one of my subjects, I have decided to engage in a somewhat unorthodox measure to verify the testimonies I will be hearing before you today. I deeply regret finding this measure necessary, but this crime cannot go undiscovered and unpunished.” Now the room was so silent, he could hear the faint reverberation of his own voice from the high beamed ceiling. The people had gone utterly still, their eyes uncomprehending. “As you are all well aware, sorcery of any kind is unlawful in our country. I have made no exceptions here. Many of you are aware of the wise-woman, Graunt, who lives on the Keep’s grounds. Her people live much longer than our own, and she has lived in this mountain since before my parents were born. She knows the mannerisms of those who lie and possesses uncanny intuition when it comes to deceit. She has been
good enough to volunteer her assistance in our hearings today. I trust her judgment, which once saved your lord’s life and has helped many of your own, in the most dire of circumstances, most recently with the ague. She will have your respect as well. Though she is not native to our soil, she has certainly lived on it long enough to warrant citizenship by my estimation, and we are most fortunate to have her among us.”

  At those words, Graunt walked in from the side door nearest Kesara. Her dark, beady, little eyes glittered with naked amusement as frantic whispers ran through the crowd, who nevertheless rose at once to make signs of respect in her direction. Thane knew her existence, and his esteem of her, were not secrets, but he had never referred to her so openly, and she had certainly never come before any of them directly like this. She gave an almost regal nod of her head to the crowd as she moved to the chair set up beside his throne.

  History was being made, he knew, and he couldn’t say he much cared for it. He felt a sudden, bone-deep weariness, a longing for life as it had been before, when he returned the simple trust his people had in him without question, when Graunt had had no need to parade herself before distrustful eyes. He knew all too well how it felt to be stared at and wondered about, regarded more like animal than man, and he abhorred the very thought of Graunt receiving such treatment, even from his own people, as much they meant to him. Even a month ago, he never would have dreamed of coming to a decision such as this. Life was changing too fast, and he was not sure it was for the better. Though he knew in his gut it truly wasn’t Kesara’s fault, there was no question that the little foreign woman’s appearance in his life had been the catalyst, and he wondered suddenly if he turning into a fool over her.

  He pushed those thoughts firmly away at once. It was too late to turn back now. Life could not be as it was before, the betrayal he had suffered could not be reversed, and he was sure he would not be standing there before his people being brought to such measures if Kesara had not appeared in his life when she had.