Fractured Magic: Chapter Twenty

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 hurried down the hall, wrapping his dressing gown tighter around himself and cursing whoever was pounding on his door so early in the morning. Isobel, Ofelia, and the servants still slept, but if this visitor kept at it, they wouldn’t for long.

Normally, Gareth was the last to rise, but he was just finishing a forced all-nighter. Well, perhaps not forced—he’d procrastinated spectacularly on some team readings and now had less than eight hours to finish them. He opened the door, ready to tell his visitor he had an important meeting to prepare for and no time to waste indulging rude guests, but the person was pushing his way inside before Gareth could get even a word out.

“I beg your—why, Mr. Hallisey!”

“Hello, Gareth!” Roman said with one of his bright, boyish grins. Despite already standing in the foyer, he asked, “Mind if I come in?”

“You may as well,” Gareth huffed, shutting the door behind him. When he turned to look at the young man, all the admonitions he’d been readying died on his tongue. That smile of Roman’s was off somehow. Or maybe it was his eyes. They were too wild, the black irises too large, the dark circles beneath them even darker than usual.

“Atiuh’s name, Roman. Are you all right?”

“Hmm? Just fine,” Roman said, with a smile even less convincing than the last.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, and then Gareth cleared his throat. “Well, don’t apologize for waking me, or anything,” he teased.

Roman looked down at Gareth’s velvety dressing gown. “Oh. Sorry?”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I thought it was morning,” Roman said, rubbing his eyes. Gareth hadn’t realized the effect the young man’s stare had on his nerves until it was hidden behind his hands.

“It is. Early morning.”

It took Roman a moment to understand, and his eyes widened when he realized his mistake. “Shit! I am sorry, Gareth,” he said, finally sounding himself again. “One of the suns is up, and I didn’t think about it beyond that. Hit me over the head and send me on my way; I can bother you at a more reasonable time.”

“It’s quite all right, Roman. It’s always a pleasure to see you, and besides, I was already awake. I was only teasing, before,” Gareth assured him. Team readings be damned. He had a friend who needed him. “Come upstairs, why don’t you? I have some work to do, but you can keep me company.”

Gareth led an unusually subdued Roman up to his sitting room. Apart from the slivers of pale sunslight peeking around the edges of the curtains, a small electric lamp on Gareth’s cluttered writing desk was the only source of light in the room. Roman took careful steps inside ahead of Gareth, his hand trailing along the back of the sofa as he went. The slow, predatory movement gave Gareth an uneasy feeling, the small hairs at the back of his neck standing on end.

“You don’t seem yourself, son,” Gareth observed.

Roman said, “That’s funny, because I feel more myself than I have in a long time.” He shrugged, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I’m sorry if I seem strange. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“That’s all right,” Gareth said, though he didn’t like that smile. He’d spoken to Roman on the phone only a few hours ago, and he hadn’t been…like this. “Did something happen?”

Roman blinked, then looked away. He shrugged. “A lot, actually. Dinara and I decided to go our separate ways.”

“What?! You seemed so close the other day! What happened?”

“Seemed is the right word for it,” Roman said. “The truth is that we’re not as compatible as we had hoped, and in the end, it was a mutual decision. While I’m sad, I’m not heartbroken.”

Gareth gave the young man’s shoulder an awkward pat. Almost imperceptibly, Roman flinched at the touch. “If you need to talk about it, I’ll listen. But give me a moment,” Gareth said, gesturing back at his desk. “I have one report to finish before I can take a break.”

“Of course,” Roman said, eyeing Gareth’s desk with a spark of his former curiosity.

While Gareth sat back down to work, Roman wandered to the bookshelves behind him. He tried to ignore the slide of cloth-bound books being pulled from shelves, the rustle of pages, but when Roman made a soft, contemptuous sound, Gareth had to turn to look. Roman held one of Gareth’s earliest publications, an anthology on mythological figures and their lasting impact. Unsurprisingly, Gareth had written his chapter about Egil.

 “It’s only been sixty years since Histrios; that’s no time at all,” Roman said. “I wouldn’t call Egil mythological.

No time at all? Gareth gave Roman a sidelong look. “Though it’s true that I would classify Egil more as a folk hero than a mythological one, technically, the defining criteria of mythology has less to do with time and more to do with how a story has shaped a culture’s belief systems. If you look back far enough, Egil stories have roots in many cultural origins. Especially if you view him as a son of Atuos—”

Roman shut the book with an audible thump. “Well, you know him best. I’ll take your word for it,” he said.

Gareth squinted, trying to interpret Roman’s tone. He wasn’t sure what he’d said wrong, but he felt the need to defend his credentials. “I’ve been studying him for twenty years,” he pointed out. “I do, in fact, know a thing or two about him.”

Roman laughed, but the mocking tilt to it seemed to be directed more toward himself than Gareth. “Somehow, I forgot that about you. Atiuh only knows how I managed that. Have you ever met anyone who knew him?”

When Gareth only squinted harder, Roman seemed to realize Gareth had misinterpreted the question. “I’m really just curious,” he quickly clarified. “I’m not trying to challenge your expertise.”

To hear it said so plainly, Gareth felt foolish. “I’ve had a few short interviews, but people who knew him well are hard to find. And when I do find them, they often won’t talk about him. In Damael, no one wants to cross their Oracle. In Alfheimr, they only sneer—as much as alfar ever sneer, anyway. I think everyone else has been threatened by Unity.” Gareth chuckled. “I asked Magistrate Diomis about him at a Yuletide Party once and I was half sure the nympherai would have me banned from the premises for it. If only I could go to Home—I’m sure I’d have luck there.”

Roman nodded and perched on the arm of Gareth’s sofa. “What about Prince Nochdvor?”

“I haven’t worked myself up to asking him, just yet. You know the stories. Despite their friendship, it was Prince Nochdvor who shot Egil in Histrios when Egil lost control.”

Roman watched Gareth closely, his black eyes glittering in the low lamplight. “Are you afraid that if you ask him, he’ll tell you the stories about Histrios are true? What if Egil wasn’t the hero you’ve written about all these years?”

Gareth fidgeted. It was hard not to shy away from those eyes of Roman’s when they saw so easily through to his greatest fears. “I think that’s unlikely.”

 “Why?”

“None of the stories we tell about Egil are, strictly speaking, true,” Gareth said, gesturing to his bookshelves. “They’re full of embellishments and exaggerations. Some are total fabrication. If you study a subject long enough, though, you’ll see a pattern in the stories. It’s in that pattern where you’ll find the truth. By all accounts, in every story, Egil loved this world and the people in it. Everything he did, he did it for them. That’s why the stories about Histrios fall flat, and it’s more nuanced than just ‘Egil is good’ or ‘Egil is bad.’ No one is all good or all bad. Did you know Prince Nochdvor dresses only in black? He’s in mourning, and I suspect he has been for sixty years.”

Whatever Roman expected Gareth to say, it clearly wasn’t that. His eyes widened. “What?”

“That’s a long time in mourning, even for an alfar. It says a lot about the kind of man Egil must’ve been, don’t you think? He’s not the only one whose life Egil touched. That’s why, even if Egil did go mad in the end, and even if the prince confirms it, that doesn’t mean Egil wasn’t a hero. All I can do is look at what I know, that Egil was someone who tried to do the right thing, and have faith in that.”

Roman slid off the arm onto the couch cushion, flopped onto his back, and stared dully up at Gareth’s ceiling. “What did doing the right thing ever get him?”

“I can’t speak for him, but I know what it got me,” Gareth said, earning himself a curious look from Roman. “When I was young, my nanny gifted me a book of Egil stories. It was thanks to her, and certainly not my parents, that I learned to love the world and people around me, and it was thanks to those stories that I found my courage. I’ve tried to live every day holding to Egil’s values, and now I’m teaching them to Ofelia, as well. And when our son is born, I’ll teach him, too. It’s the nature of kindness to bloom and spread, but the unfortunate truth is that we rarely see the results of the seeds we sow. And so we return to the importance of faith: faith that, at the end of each day, the world will grow just a little bit better.”

Gareth only had time to see Roman’s brows furrow before the young man slung his arms over his eyes, hiding them. “I wish I could have that kind of faith.”

“Having faith isn’t a wish, it’s a choice. Does this have something to do with Ms. Condeh?” Gareth asked gently.

“Well...maybe. Traveling with her was easy, but cowardly, too. Now that I don’t have the excuse of traveling with her, I don’t know what to do.” When Gareth approached, Roman peeked briefly out from under his arm, his eyes suspiciously red-rimmed.

“You’re a bright, charming young man with excellent prospects,” Gareth assured him. “You have plenty of options.”

Roman’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. After a moment and a suspicious sniffle, he sat up, the couch cushion leaving his hair mussed. “Options, yes, but which of them is right? How did your Egil of myth and folklore always know the right thing to do?”

“I imagine he followed his heart,” Gareth said. It was his turn now to perch on the arm of the couch. From this angle, his young visitor looked especially pitiful. Perhaps that was why Gareth said what he said next. “I hate to drag you into this, but if you’re truly at a loss for what to do, you would be welcome to join us on the mission to Illyon.”

Roman stared at Gareth. “What?”

“I know what you’re thinking. Why would you want to, right? If you come with, I think you could do some real good.”

“No,” Roman interrupted. “I meant, can you do that? Invite me? Do you have the authority?”

“Ah,” Gareth said. “Yes and no. Ultimately, I’ll have to run it by Moira, but Unity has allowed me a guard, and I just got word last night that the fellow I’d previously chosen can no longer join us. So I have my pick, and you have already saved my life once.”

“What happened to the last guy?”

“I’m not sure,” Gareth admitted. “Apparently, he’s ‘no longer fit for duty,’ whatever that means.”

Hearing this, Roman’s expression turned complicated.

“I know working for Unity is not ideal for you, but it would be nice to have you along,” Gareth said, guessing at the meaning for it.

Silence stretched between them while Roman thought. Finally, he heaved a heavy sigh. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it, if you can get your sister’s blessing.”

“That’s wonderful!” Gareth clapped his hands together. “Don’t you worry about Moira; I’m sure I can bully her into agreeing, since she forced me into this mess in the first place. Do you have any questions? Anything I can say to allay your concerns?”

“There is one thing I’m curious about,” Roman began, looking innocently up at Gareth. “I’ve heard so many rumors about what happened. People keep mentioning magic—do you know why? Is there really magic involved?”

It was a reasonable thing to be apprehensive about, Gareth supposed—the accounts in the newspaper were getting more outlandish by the day. Explosions, magical teleportation, sleeping spells. “No one’s mentioned it on the official record, or in any of our meetings,” Gareth said. And that was true. Even Moria had kept tight-lipped when Gareth had questioned her. But he remembered that day on the island, listening to Leandros and Rheamaren Nochdvor argue with the Magistrates through closed doors. “That said, I do believe the Nochdvors saw something strange that day.”

“So Leandros knows,” Roman sighed, defeated. And there it was again—Roman’s casual use of the prince’s given name, just like that day at the theater. “I guess I’ll have to talk to him.”

“If you’re planning on joining the team, I would think so.”

He’d suspected as much, but Gareth felt certain now that Roman and Leandros knew each other. He opened his mouth to ask about it, but then Roman interrupted by waving Gareth back toward his desk. “I know you have work to do, Gareth. I feel much better now, so you needn’t waste any more time with me. I’ll be quiet as a church mouse.”

True to his word, Roman quieted after that, but even after returning to his desk Gareth could feel those dark eyes on his back. He skimmed hastily through the last few reports, turning when he was done only to find Roman curled up on the couch, asleep. Gareth smiled and draped a blanket over Roman before heading upstairs to try to get some sleep of his own.

_____

Roman woke much later on a sofa that was too short for him, his feet hanging absurdly off the edge. A muscle in his back gave a sharp protest when he sat up, and he buried his head in his hands with a groan, blocking the bright sunslight. He was far too old to be passing out on random couches.

It took him a moment to remember where he was, and with it came all the memories from the night before. He didn’t want to think about any of it—not Dinara, not his dreams, not Unity. So instead, he peered around Gareth’s sitting room, then down at himself. At some point, a knitted blanket had been draped over him.

He shouldn’t have come here. He didn’t know why he had. As long as he was here, though...

He crossed over to Gareth’s desk and picked through the papers strewn across it. Most had Confidential stamped across them, but Roman ignored the warning, picking up a page up to study it.

“You’re up,” a voice came from behind Roman. Quietly, subtly folding the roster and slipping it into his vest pocket, Roman turned to find a maid standing in the doorway, regarding him with curiosity. When she realized she was staring, she dropped into a hasty curtsy. “The Ranulfs are taking breakfast out on the balcony; they’ve asked that you join them.”

“Thank you,” Roman said. “Which way is that?”

“Down the hall and to the right, through the dining room. Would you like me to show you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Roman said. Following her directions, he turned down a cheerfully-decorated hallway and found an alfar man lounging against the wall, looking bored. An eyepatch covered one eye, his reddish-brown hair flopping into the other, but Roman stopped short when their gazes met. He could always tell an Enforcer by the empty look in their eyes.

The man looked Roman up and down and asked, “Got any weapons on you?”

Roman raised an eyebrow, then both of his arms, doing a slow turn to show that he was unarmed. Satisfied, the man nodded Roman into the dining room. Roman didn’t so much as breathe as he passed. A part of him was sure the alfar would attack, but instead, he just picked idly at his nails.

The dining room itself was empty, a flute-like laugh drifted in through the open balcony doors. Isobel. Roman followed the sound to find all three Ranulfs and a stranger sitting around a table, the white ends of its tablecloth snapping and fluttering in the fall breeze. While he’d never met the human Magistrate, he’d known as soon as he saw that Enforcer in the hallway that he would find her here.

“Good morning!” Gareth called. He sat facing Roman, his back to the rooftops of Gallonten. Beyond him sat Unity Island and the blue horizon, streaks of color dancing through the sky above it. It was rare that Gallonten wasn’t lost under a blanket of smog. Roman had thought he was past finding beauty in this crooked city, but suddenly, he was struck by it.

“Morning,” he greeted. He had no desire to dine with a Magistrate, but for such a view, he’d plug his nose against the bitter taste. “I don’t want to intrude—”

“It’s a good thing you’re not, then,” Isobel said cheerfully. Sitting beside Gareth, she gestured at the open seat across from her—next to the Magistrate. “Join us. Help yourself to some breakfast.”

“I didn’t want to wake you; it seemed like you needed the sleep,” Gareth said. “Moira, this is Roman Hallisey, the one I was telling you about. Roman, this is my sister, Moira Ranulf.”

Moira’s eyes trailed over Roman’s face—the dark bags under his eyes, his mussed hair—and then his clothes—well made, but worn and out of style by several decades. Her assessment ended with his scarred, calloused hands, and Roman tugged his sleeve down so she wouldn’t see the brand on his wrist.

“Pleasure,” she said flatly.

“Likewise,” Roman said, matching her tone. In agreeing to Gareth’s guard idea, he’d foolishly hoped he wouldn’t have to meet with any Magistrates personally. Had Gareth already told her about his offer? From Moira’s cold look, Roman had to assume the answer was yes. With a sigh, he took a seat beside her.

The table was piled high with more food than five people could comfortably eat: plates of rolls, bowls of fruit, warm ham and a pot of rich, bitter coffee Roman could smell from where he sat. He felt a little out of place, though he couldn’t tell if it was the luxury or the familial domesticity. Both were foreign to him.

“And of course, this is our daughter Ofelia,” Isobel said. “Ofelia, say hello to Mr. Hallisey. He’s a friend of your father’s.”

Ofelia stared at him. “How d’you do,” she murmured through a mouthful of potatoes.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ofelia,” Roman said seriously. “I like your dress.”

Ofelia muttered something else that could have ostensibly been a “thank you”.

“She looks just like you, Isobel,” Roman observed.

“Fortunately for her,” Gareth agreed.

“She has Gareth’s curls,” Isobel said, tucking a lock of dark hair behind Ofelia’s ear. Ofelia and Roman’s eyes both went to Gareth’s bald head.

“I choose to shave it, you know,” Gareth said stiffly.

Isobel made a sound that could have been a cough. “Gareth told me what happened with Dinara,” she said, watching Roman for signs of unease. “You’re welcome to stay with us a while, if you need a place. We have a spare room.”

Roman stared at her and, when Gareth nodded his agreement, at Gareth. “I...” was all he managed before having to stop. There was a strange lump in his throat. He’d resigned himself to cheap inns at best, the oracle’s safe house at worst. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Gareth said with a smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners, lines left there by a lifetime of smiling. “Consider it my thanks to you for saving my life.”

Moira looked up from her plate. “I beg your pardon?”

“Didn’t I say? Roman’s the one who saved me the night I was mugged. That was how we first met.”

The Magistrate studied Roman anew, her gaze more calculating this time. It was a familiar look, especially found in the eyes of a Unity Magistrate—like a man eyeing up a painting he was thinking to buy. It was a look that reminded Roman of past pain, of a long line of Magistrates who’d hurt and used him and felt no remorse. He had no doubt Moira would do the same, if given the chance.

She would not get that chance.

“You have my thanks, Mr. Hallisey,” Moira said, her tone warmer now. “Gareth mentioned the invitation he extended to you. Have you done any guard work before?”

 “I’ve been traveling with the Webhon Players for two years in that capacity.”

“Ah! The Webhon Players,” Moira said. “That was an excellent show they put on, the other night. It’s a pity we had to close the theater after the break-in.”

Gareth choked on his food and started coughing into his elbow. “The what?” he asked, when he could.

“It was in the papers this morning, darling,” Isobel said. “The island was locked down yesterday afternoon after some intruders somehow got past the bridge. I meant to ask you about that, Moira. You can’t really believe orinian terrorists were behind this.”

“Terrorists?” Gareth repeated.

“That’s what the papers are saying,” Isobel explained.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it,” Moira said stiffly.

Isobel wouldn’t be dissuaded. She clicked her tongue. “It just strikes me as extremely unlikely. How did they get onto the island? How did they even get into Gallonten? Hasn’t the city been closed to orinians since the Nochdvors arrived? What were they trying to accomplish?”

“I don’t see why you’re getting so emotional about this,” Moira said.

If Roman hadn’t already been keeping his head down for this conversation, he would have done so at Isobel’s answering fury. “Emotional? I’m just trying to understand the facts, Moira. You know, the proof you need before you can call something true. Did anyone see the intruders? Where did the papers get their information? Is Unity going to release a statement, or—?”

“There will be no statement. Gareth, will you pass the butter?”

Gareth picked up the butter tray but didn’t immediately hand it over. “What about our neighbors? They won’t be punished for this, will they? You know they’re innocent, Moira.”

“As a matter of fact,” Moira said, “Your innocent orinians broke out of their cells and escaped with the criminals responsible.”

Isobel sat back, stunned. “They escaped?”

Gareth’s eyes found Roman’s across the table. Roman knew he was putting together the pieces: yesterday morning, he and Dinara had called Gareth asking about the orinians that were arrested. Later that same day, those orinians were broken out of prison. Whether or not Gareth suspected Roman’s involvement, though, he said nothing.

“I will remind you both that those orinians are fugitives and they are to be considered dangerous,” Moira said. “If they show their faces here, or if you learn anything—”

“We would tell you right away, of course,” Isobel said. Though her voice was sweet, her smile was sharp.

“Were any of the people involved caught?” Gareth asked.

“Not yet, but I have faith they will be,” Moira said.

Roman kept waiting for Gareth to blame him, but it never came. Instead, Ofelia interrupted, loudly declaring that she wanted to go play, and the tension cracked like ice. Isobel laughed and stood with some difficulty, sidling around the table with her hand on her stomach. She scooped Ofelia up. “I’m going to take Ofelia up to her governess. I’ll be right back.”

Moira watched her go, then asked Gareth, “How far along is she now?”

“Almost five months.”

“How time flies.”

“It does. I hope I don’t miss the birth,” Gareth said. If it weren’t for his frigid expression, the comment could have seemed offhanded. For a moment, Gareth looked just like his sister; it was a side of the man Roman hadn’t seen before. But Gareth softened again on a sigh. “Do you have to make everything so difficult, Moira? Isobel is just trying to understand what happened.”

This had the tread of a well-worn argument, and Roman watched with fascination. That Gareth and Isobel would try to sway Moira at all surprised him; that she wouldn’t listen even to her own family did not. Gareth said that people weren’t just good or bad. Roman used to believe that, too. He used to believe that the Magistrates had good in them—families they loved, values they stood for, people they respected. Too late, he learned they knew none of it. No love, no values, no respect. One day, he would at least like to teach them fear.

Roman considered the stories of Histrios people liked to tell, of a tragic hero turned feral and the dear friend who shot him to save him from becoming a monster. Leandros was the hero of that story, not Egil.

The truth was this: Roman wouldn’t have cared if the Magistrates did have good in them, for all the harm they’d done to this world. They deserved to be put down, just as they’d tried to put down Egil.

He rolled up his sleeves and rested his elbow on the table, flashing the brand that marked him as one of Unity’s own Enforcers. Moira went still when she noticed it, the color draining from her face.

“Is something wrong, Magistrate?” Roman asked innocently, licking the jam off his knife. It was blunt, meant only for spreading butter, but she would know that in his hands, it was the deadliest weapon. That he was a weapon, all because of the Magistrates that came before her.

“Moira?” Gareth echoed, watching his sister with concern.

Moira’s eyes darted toward the door, as if she was contemplating running—or calling for her Enforcer. Roman smiled again, silently daring her to try it. Her eyes dropped to his knife, and she quickly lied to save her own life. “Not at all. I’m quite all right,” she said. Abruptly, she stood. “Unfortunately, though, I just remembered something important I must do on the island. Give my apologies to Isobel, Gareth...Mr. Hallisey.”

Roman’s smile fell. He watched Gareth watch her flee, the man’s brows knitted in confusion, and all he felt was pity. Moira Ranulf had just abandoned her baby brother to what she thought was a ruthless killer, and Gareth didn’t even realize it.

“That was odd,” Gareth said, returning to his breakfast. He glanced at Roman across the table and frowned. “Ouch. That must have been painful—what happened?”

For a moment, Roman thought Gareth meant the brand, but then he realized Gareth was looking at the other arm—at a fresh pink scar on the back of his hand. “Oh, this?” Roman asked, holding his hand up to the light. The scar was mirrored on his palm, too, where the blade had pierced right through his hand. The wound had fully closed, the skin knit back together. He considered it for a moment, then said, “It was a cooking accident.”

I love characters who are liars. Thank you for reading, as always, and apologies for the unexpected hiatus. To be fully transparent, we had an unexpected pet death in the family and finding the energy and heart to write has been difficult. We're getting into one of my favorite arcs of the story, though, so there's that to look forward to!

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