Fractured Magic: Chapter Two

Fractured Magic is a fantasy webserial about political and personal accountability, ghosts both figurative and literal, and a pair of estranged friends who act like they’ve gone through the world’s messiest divorce.

Gareth Ranulf spun on the phone box stool, its receiver held to his ear. “I’ll see you soon, my dear,” he cooed, listening to the tinny reply before adding, “Yes, ideally with Moira in tow, but you know how she can be. There’s some sort of event happening on the island today. Knowing her, she’ll need to stay.”

Through the glossy windows, he watched strangers hurry past—more than he would’ve expected from Unity on a Saturday. There were secretaries and politicians, socialites and more than the usual number of reporters. A group of the latter stopped in front of Gareth's phone box, the sleek dragon in their midst sitting her bulk right in front of his door. Gareth frowned, rapped on the glass to get her attention, and nearly missed his wife’s reply.

“Come again?” he asked, swiveling back around to face the transmitter. “Yes, I’ll tell her. Isobel, I have to let you go; I’ve been trapped in my phone box. No, it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll meet up with you and Ofelia on the hour, all right? I love you, Boop.”

As he hung up the phone, he clicked his tongue. What sort of person went around blocking phone boxes without checking whether anyone was inside? Gareth knocked on the glass again, deciding to give this stranger a piece of his mind. When that didn’t help, he shoved the door open until it hit her blue flank. She finally looked back at that, her eyes widening enough to reveal the full rectangles of her pupils. “Apologies,” she rumbled, shuffling aside.

Gareth’s bluster left him all at once. “No, it’s no bother at all! I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. Terribly sorry. Please, pardon me.”

Freed from his box, Gareth couldn’t help but pause to listen in on their conversation. Maybe he’d learn why the island was so busy.

“Well I’m not surprised by any of this,” one of the dragon’s reporter friends was saying. “The royal family has another scandal every few decades. We were overdue.”

Gareth bent and pretended to tie his boot laces. Eavesdropping had always been a horrible habit of his; at some point, he’d given up resisting it. He wondered which royal family the man meant. There were several options: of the six provinces under Unity’s banner, four of them had reigning monarchs. The Sheman royal family in the north won for petty drama, but Ejera in the west had seen the most recent political upheaval.

“Be serious, Arthur,” said an alfar girl. She appeared younger than the others, with piercings along her pointed ears and strawberry-blonde hair that she’d braided out of her face. Knowing how alfar biology worked, however, she may well have been the oldest of the group. “Whatever happened must be serious. Both the princess and prince came here in person.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Arther asked.

“The prince hasn’t left Alfheimr in sixty years,” Gareth’s dragon supplied.

“And we were better without him,” the alfar girl said. “If you ask me, he’s gone as mad as Egil did.”

Arthur met Gareth’s eyes. “I say, sir, can we help you?”

Gareth stood quickly, his face flushing. “No, not at all. Excuse me.” His heart beat fast in his chest as he stepped out onto Unity’s cobbled footpaths, but it had less to do with being caught listening and more to do with the thought of Leandros Nochdvor being here on the island. The prince was famous, and not just for killing Egil in Histrios—he’d worked closely with the Oracle of Damael, negotiated the first ever trade agreements with the frìth, and even uncovered a coup in Alfheim. He was a hero in his own right, but after Histrios, he’d simply vanished.

The questions Gareth would ask, if he caught a moment alone with the man! Maybe, if he asked nicely, his sister would arrange an introduction. He found himself walking with a quicker step at the thought, his path lined with taurel and other late summer blooms. Above his head, oranges and reds crept along the edges of crisp green leaves. Normally, Gareth hated this time of year, but he was so giddy now that he found he didn’t mind it.

This was a season of change, a season for looking back on what you had and forward to what you may yet get. It was normally a season of celebration and relief, but for Gareth, it had always been a season of responsibilities. Unity, the world’s interprovincial governing body, held a week’s worth of conferences in Gallonten every fall. All the world’s important people flocked to the capital city to attend, and every fall, Gareth was forced to join them.

If it were up to him, he’d be home working on his book, playing in the fallen leaves with his daughter, or walking his estate grounds with his wife. But this year, if he could get an interview with Leandros Nochdvor, his pilgrimage to Gallonten may just have been worth it. Getting a firsthand account from the man who killed Egil was just what his book needed!

His destination was a courthouse that towered against the rocky coast, its pointed arches and stone spires grasping for the gray sky. Unity’s famous clock tower stood beside it, adding to the island’s famous silhouette. With salty ocean breeze washing over him, Gareth looked up at the clock’s face and did some quick math: he had just under an hour to get inside, coax Moira out, and meet up with Isobel across the bridge in Gallonten.

He hurried up the stairs, between bronze statues of the gods Ellaes and Atuos, and into the courthouse only to stop in the doorway at the unexpected crowd. He had never in his life seen the atrium so full. The crowds, clustered together in groups, had stopped whispering when he’d come in, but they started right back up when they realized he was nobody special. Gareth self-consciously adjusted the strap of his writing bag and pushed past, straining to hear the whispers as he went.

“—All the way from Illyon,” one man said to his friends.

At the next grouping, a nympherai whispered, “It’s the alfar king. I hear he’s sick. That’s why he didn’t come himself.”

Passing a third group, Gareth caught only one word: “Orean.”

By the time he reached the stairs, his curiosity blazed even brighter than before. He hurried up toward the representatives’ offices, his eyes sliding over Unity’s decadence—the oil paintings and velvet hangings, the wooden carvings and gilded railings. He was used to it all. At the top of the stairs, the hallway split in three directions, one for each branch of Unity, one branch for each of Calaidia’s species. Though dragons didn’t grow much taller than draft horses, the ceilings down the center hall were specially vaulted. At twenty-three hands, the draconic magistrate was the exception to the rule, though they said red dragons used to grow even taller. Gareth took the more reasonably sized hallway to the left, following it to the human representatives’ wing.

Calaidia’s species shared Unity’s power equally: each had twelve seats on the Congregation, which created and enforced laws for the provinces to follow, and each appointed one Magistrate to oversee them. The Magistrates were, by far, the most powerful people on the continent—more powerful than the representatives, and more powerful than the leaders of the individual provinces. They were also the busiest people on the continent, so Gareth wasn’t surprised to find Moira’s office empty.

“She’s in a meeting,” one of Moira’s clerks explained. “Would you like me to take a message for you?”

“That’s quite all right. I’ll just catch up with her later,” Gareth said. Before turning to leave, though, he asked, “Is there something happening downstairs? There was a crowd when I passed through.”

The clerk smiled amiably. “I don’t know anything about that, sir.”

“Is that so? I heard it has something to do with the Alfheimr royal family?”

“That’s an interesting theory.”

“Right,” Gareth said, taking the hint. “Well. It’s supposed to be your day off, isn’t it? Don’t let my sister overwork you.”

“Yes, Mr. Ranulf. Thank you.”

Gareth took the long way out, past the representatives’ offices. Almost everyone was in today, and Gareth suspected that if he performed a similar inspection in the other two wings, he'd find more of the same. It was odd: the conference season was for seeing and being seen, not for serious political work. You rarely saw this level of turnout on actual conference days, let alone on the weekend before. Whatever had brought the Nochdvors here must be serious.

Moira wouldn’t tell him anything even if he did find her, but Gareth was a stubborn man with an insatiable curiosity; it was why he did so well in academia. As long as he found her, he was sure he could squeeze something interesting out of her. Deciding to check one more place for her, he returned to the atrium. From there, he circled the empty courtroom to the private hallway that led to the Magistrates’ Chambers. Before he could knock at the raised door, though, raised voices stilled his hand.

He couldn’t quite make out the words, so he inched closer, stood on the tips of his toes, and peered through the door’s narrow window. Inside, he saw four people, two familiar and two new.

“This was your idea, Moira?” asked Malong, one of the Magistrates of the Congregation of Unity. She stood with her back to the far windows, the sunslight catching on her diamond-clear scales and sending rainbows cascading along the walls. Gareth shrunk down, trying to hide as much of himself as possible. Malong was a fearsome sight, and having known her all his life had only made Gareth fear her more. Fortunately, her attention was fixed on Moira, who lounged comfortably on a leather sofa.

“Does it matter? Our esteemed guests vetoed this one, too,” Moira said, sounding bored. Gareth could only see the back of her head, but he'd grown up with that tone. He could imagine the matching expression perfectly.

“It will take too long,” said one of the strangers, an alfar woman with hair like spun gold. Her catlike pupils had narrowed to slits in the sunslight. “We don’t have time.”

The Princess of Alfheimr, Rheamaren Nochdvor. If Gareth hadn’t heard the gossip, he might not have recognized her. Aside from her golden hair, she had little in common with her father, her eyes dark and her features soft. Gareth had met Amos only once, as a child, but he could never forget it. The alfar had been a vision, exactly what a young boy imagined a powerful king should be. While Rheamaren was arresting, she didn’t have his commanding presence. Not yet.

Then she stepped forward, revealing more of the man beside her. For a moment, Gareth thought it actually was Amos Nochdvor, here after all, but this person was too young. The resemblance was uncanny.

Leandros Nochdvor was tall, with a handsome face and the same golden hair as his cousin. Like his cousin, he wore a closely-tailored suit, ornate in a way only Alfheimr could produce. But while hers was green and gold, in line with Alfheimr's love of bright colors and shiny things, his was all black, as if he was in mourning. What presence Rheamaren lacked, Leandros had; Gareth had no trouble fitting him into legends alongside Egil and the Oracle of Damael. Leandros’ expression was a sheet of ice over a frozen lake, and every so often, Gareth glimpsed dangerous shadows churning underneath.

His expression was as flat as any alfar’s, but the intensity radiating off him made Gareth shift uncomfortably.

“I urge you to reconsider, Your Highness,” a thin voice said from a corner of the chambers Gareth couldn’t see. He recognized it, though: it belonged to Diomis, the third and final of Unity’s Magistrates. Diomis continued, “We understand the need for urgency, but this situation must be handled delicately. Delicacy takes time, and we do not wish to needlessly escalate things.”

Gareth held his breath. Situation?

Leandros lifted his chin at Diomis’ words, the small gesture somehow dripping contempt, and Gareth noticed an old scar that stretched from his cheekbone to his jaw. Still, he didn’t speak.

“With all due respect, Orean escalated the situation when they kidnapped my father,” the princess hissed, making Gareth gasp in the quiet hallway. “Leandros and I didn’t come here to be careful. We came to ask for Unity’s assistance—barring that, your permission—to do whatever it takes to rescue our king. I fear your plan, tiptoeing around Orean, negotiating with them, won’t be enough.”

“We understand your concerns, Your Highness,” Moira said. “You’ve expressed them several times over. But Unity won’t sanction a war based on one girl’s fear.”

Gareth winced at his sister’s harsh words. That was just like Moira, candid to a fault. In her defense, her position allowed her to be. Rheamaren didn’t react, but Leandros’ brows drew together. A bold expression, for someone from Alfheimr. “I never said anything about war,” the princess corrected. “I only want to—”

“To ride to Orean with an army and demand the king’s return?” Moira finished. “Where do you think that will lead? Do you think they’ll fall over themselves apologizing and return him to you, as easy as that? After the atrocities they committed to get him?”

Rheamaren’s expression was even flatter than her cousin’s. It had always unsettled Gareth, on his research trips to Alfheimr, how masterfully its people could mask their emotions. “Don’t sanction anything, then,” Rheamaren said. “Just don’t get in our way.”

“Princess, try to understand,” Diomis said, still only a disembodied voice. “Regardless of intent, the rest of the world would see our silence as permission. We cannot allow this violence until we know more.”

“Allow?”

“Yes, allow,” Moira said firmly. “Alfheimr will not engage with Orean if we say it cannot.”

“We can find a different solution, then,” the princess said, glancing at her cousin—for assistance? For support? Gareth couldn’t get a read on their relationship, but watching Leandros’ face, he caught another shadow shift beneath the ice.

“No,” Moira said. “We’ve done nothing all day but try to compromise, but the discussion is over. Alfheimr is prohibited from engaging with Orean and Unity will investigate King Nochdvor’s disappearance and facilitate his return. That is that.”

Rheamaren frowned, the thick mask of Alfheimr restraint cracking. “Why won’t you just—”

“Rhea,” Leandros warned. The single word silenced the princess.

Malong smiled, one corner of her lip curling up to reveal sharp fangs. “Best listen to him.”

 “Leandros?” the princess asked.

“Yes, you’ve been very quiet all this time, Prince Nochdvor.  I’m surprised you even came here today. You used to be quite against Unity in your youth, if I recall. I suppose that rebellious nature of yours changed after Histrios?”

A muscle in Leandros’ jaw jumped; his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“We are not here to speak of past affairs,” Rheamaren said.

“Forgive Malong. It’s clear that you need Unity’s help, and we are willing to give it,” Diomis soothed, finally stepping into Gareth’s field of view. The two alfar were tall for humans, but the nympherai Magistrate stood heads taller than them both. Their legs tilted oddly as they stepped forward, enough to draw attention to their smooth gait and the hooves peeking out from beneath their skirts. Atop their head sat something like a crown made of kelp. “We have people who are trained to handle situations like these. Leave this to us; His Majesty will be safe in our hands.”

“What of that woman? Do you have people trained to handle her?” Rheamaren asked, making the Magistrates exchange looks.

Diomis laid a bony hand on Rheamaren’s shoulder. “Whoever you saw that day was only human. I am sure there is a scientific explanation for the rest. Forget this orinian woman.”

“Are you saying we lied?” Rheamaren asked. An accusation like that seemed strange paired with such a blank expression.

“Of course not,” Diomis replied. “You are distressed, and you witnessed something terrible. Your mind filled in a fantasy to make sense of it, which is understandable.”

“What we do know is Orean is ready and willing to use violence,” Moira said. “Whether that violence was alchemical or something else entirely matters little to us. We also know that responding in kind could drive them to further extremes. While they have your father, that’s dangerous.”

“But—”

“Rhea,” Leandros said again, so quietly this time that Gareth almost missed it. Rheamaren turned to look at him, so Gareth couldn’t see her expression. What he did see was Leandros’ subtle nod and the way Rheamaren’s shoulders slumped in answer. Finally, Leandros turned to the Magistrates. While his words remained deferential, his voice soothing, Gareth could finally make out the shape of the emotion that thrashed behind the alfar’s icy eyes: it was anger. “I hope you’ll forgive our hesitation, Magistrates. It’s been three days since my uncle’s abduction—three days of stress and little sleep. You’ve not only conceived a plan that will keep the continent peaceful, but considered our king’s safety in making it. We should be thanking you.”

Gareth could practically see Moira relax into the couch, relieved to be talking to someone with sense again. He saw her perceived victory in the slow curve of her smile, but then Leandros continued.

“However, I’m sure you can understand that Alfheimr needs to be the one to bring him home—for our relationship with Orean, for our people’s confidence in their future queen, and for the rest of the world, looking on. If you force us out, it will not go well for us, but it will go just as badly for you,” Leandros said.

Moira sat up again. “How do you figure?” she asked.

Leandros smiled, as self-satisfied as a cat in the sun. It was more expression than Gareth had ever seen from an alfar, and he found it even more unsettling than Rheamaren’s blank stare. “Everyone knows how Unity feels about Orean, and they know how long you’ve been waiting for a chance to challenge them. I’m sure you don’t want the world to learn how you insisted on taking over this mission, despite our acting queen’s refusal. I’m also sure you don’t want them to learn the truth of what Rheamaren and I saw in the tower that day. You don’t want them thinking you have ulterior motives, do you?”

The threat was clear: if the Magistrates insisted on this route, he would tell everyone what he had seen. But what had he seen?

“The truth,” Malong spat. “You saw nothing in that tower that day. You were in shock. Going around and spouting nonsense about magic—no one would believe you, even if you tried to tell them.”

Diomis shot her a warning look, but Leandros only shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out. Suspicion spreads like poison, swift and lethal,” he said. Silence fell while the Magistrates considered this. As if he didn’t even feel the hostility radiating off them, Leandros continued, “There are other truths I could tell them, as well. Ones I have kept secret on your behalf. Again: shall we see who they believe?”

Moira’s brows drew together and Diomis stared, their ichthyic eyes unblinking. Malong seemed to have the strongest reaction, her tail whipping angrily behind her. “What do you want,” she ground out.

“I’m glad you asked. I’ve thought of a compromise that I believe will satisfy us all.”

“Go on,” Diomis said.

“Unity wants a team to investigate and negotiate Amos’ return,” Leandros summarized, “And Alfheimr would like to have a hand in rescuing our own king. Having a representative on the team that we trust, one with a personal stake in seeing Amos safely home, would go a long way toward assuaging my cousin’s concerns, I’m sure. Surely, that is not an unfair ask?”

“I suppose not,” Diomis agreed.

Again, that smug smile. Gareth realized it was more like a chess master’s, having just made a winning play. “Then I volunteer for the position.”

“You want to join the team?” Moira clarified.

“Not quite. I want to lead it.”

At that, Moira laughed. “You have quite the pair on you, boy!”

“Respectfully, Magistrate, I’m over twice your age,” Leandros said, smiling pleasantly, as if they were sharing a joke. “And you’ll find that I am also trained for this position. I’ve led similar missions for the Oracle of Damael, have direct personal knowledge of Orean, and hold a dual degree in psychology and law. I also have, as Magistrate Malong kindly pointed out, a reputation that will make Orean more inclined to trust me than any of you.”

“Absolutely not,” Malong hissed. “With your history? Your father’s history? Your threats? Do you really expect us to believe you’re impartial?”

Leandros nodded as if he’d expected this. “I’m from Alfheimr, aren’t I? Impartiality is what we do best.” More earnestly, he continued: “Magistrates, I’m asking to work with you to get him back. As you’ve made clear, we can’t do this alone, but neither can you.”

Gareth didn’t understand the significance of any of this, of the references to magic and motives and secrets and histories, but he knew how his sister looked when she was close to giving in. And though Rheamaren stared at her cousin with wide eyes, she straightened her shoulders and joined in: “My cousin’s compromise sounds reasonable to me. If he leads the team, then you’ll hear no more objections from me or Alfheimr. Leandros will report to you, and the team itself will still be yours to assemble.”

Moira twitched, crossing and uncrossing her legs. It was Diomis who finally spoke, a rueful smile on their thin lips. “You make reasonable points.”

“You’re not actually considering this?” Malong hissed at them.

Diomis shrugged. “Having the Hero of Histrios join with Unity once more...it’s a compelling narrative.”

It was only because Gareth watched Leandros so closely that he noticed Leandros react: he blinked twice, rapidly, his mouth twitching down into a frown. Gareth imagined it was the alfar equivalent of flinching.

“Do you use that law degree of yours, Prince Nochdvor?” Moira asked.

“Not currently.”

Moira harrumphed. “You should.”

“You’ve given us much to think about,” Diomis said. “Crown Princess Nochdvor, Prince Nochdvor, may we have some time to discuss it? I propose we meet here again in an hour.”

Gareth scrambled back from the door before he was caught, but not fast enough. Rheamaren Nochdvor threw it open with such force that it nearly hit him. He landed on his backside, the contents of his bag spilling out over the hallway. The princess barely seemed to notice, storming off in a random direction with a frighteningly controlled expression, and Gareth pushed himself up onto his elbows just in time for Leandros to follow. Unlike his cousin, his own expression was far from controlled: it was fiery and furious, though it fell into surprise when he saw Gareth.

Gareth blinked at him. Leandros blinked back. Then Leandros Nochdvor did the unthinkable: he crouched and started to gather Gareth’s scattered papers while the doors swung shut behind him.

“Please don’t!” Gareth whispered, mortified. “Really, that’s not necessary. You can just leave them.”

“Nonsense.” Leandros tapped a bundle of papers against the ground to straighten them. “That was my cousin that crashed into you just now; if she won’t take responsibility, I will. Forgive her, she’s had a difficult week.” He glanced up at Gareth, his catlike pupils blown wide in the dim hallway. “Were you on your way to see the Magistrates?”

Outside the tension of the Magistrates’ Chambers, he seemed a different person. A gentler person. It made his resemblance to his uncle even more uncanny, and for a moment, Gareth could only stare. He realized Leandros was waiting for a response. “Ah! Yes. Moira is…” he said, trailing off when the alfar’s attention dropped to the small pamphlet he’d found among Gareth’s papers. Gareth made a grab for it. “Please, pay that no mind!”

Leandros held the pamphlet out of reach and turned it so Gareth could see the scandalous black-and-white illustration on the cover. The alfar raised a questioning eyebrow at him while Gareth struggled to make an excuse. Then Leandros surprised Gareth again by asking: “Are you finished with this? Would you let me borrow it?”

Gareth’s brain stuttered to a stop all at once. “Are you…a fan of the story?”

Leandros ran his thumb over the penny dreadful’s cover. “Something like that.”

“Then by all means, it’s yours. It’s my wife’s, but she’ll be thrilled to have someone make good use of it.”

Leandros almost smiled at Gareth, the expression barely there. “You’re certain?” he asked. He climbed to his feet, then offered a hand to help Gareth up as well. He was stronger, broader than he’d seemed from a distance, and Gareth felt embarrassed at how easily he was pulled up.

“Quite,” Gareth managed.

Leandros made a soft, pleased sound and tucked the pamphlet into an inner coat pocket. “Thank you, sir. For what it’s worth, you’ve made one of the worst days of my life slightly more bearable.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Gareth said. Then, in the awkward silence that followed, he blurted, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

It was an admission of guilt, a confession that he’d been eavesdropping, but Leandros didn’t seem bothered by it—or if he was, he didn’t show it. Instead, he simply said, “I’ve heard that again and again, these last few days, but you’re the first one who’s said it and seemed genuine. Thank you.”

Awkwardly, Gareth held out his hand. “Gareth Ranulf,” he said. Seeing the recognition in Leandros’ eyes when he said his last name, he added, “And please forgive my sister. She cares more than she lets on.”

Leandros shook Gareth’s hand. “I should go find my cousin, but thank you again for the chapter. I thought I’d missed my chance to read it. And please...don’t tell anyone about this.”

Gareth couldn’t tell whether he meant the kidnapping or the penny dreadful, but he nodded and moved out of Leandros’ way. “The princess went that way.”

Leandros bowed before following his cousin’s stormy path. Gareth watched him go, waited for him to round the corner, then snuck quietly away before anyone else found him there. He had best leave Moira to her work, after all.

Fun fact: "Boop" is a real term of endearment victorians used, for some reason.

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