Fractured Magic: Chapter Twenty-Five

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.

If you had asked Gareth yesterday, he would have told you that he knew Egil well. Not as well as someone like Leandros Nochdvor, who’d been close to Egil in life, but better than most. While academic study was no replacement for in-person discovery, it could still teach you much.

But Gareth did not know this man before him. Roman's—Egil's eyes were icy, frozen over when he finally tore them from Leandros’ retreating back. "Let's go, Gareth," was all he said before heading in the opposite direction.

Eager as he was to follow, Gareth paused to ask Eresh, "You're certain you can handle this alone?"

After Leandros and Eftychia had split off from them, it was Eresh who suggested they help. Faced with bravery like that, Gareth could only agree, but neither had expected to arrive and find this: bodies strewn, a battle concluded, and their friends speaking casually over the dead. Gareth avoided looking at the fallen assassins, their eyes unseeing and their blood pooling on the cobblestone. He still hadn't forgotten the thief Egil killed the night they met. He didn't need more empty eyes haunting his dreams.

"Oh, yes. I know how to talk to the police," Eresh assured him.

“Gareth,” Egil called, prompting Gareth to scramble after him. Back in crowded streets, Egil raised a hand at the first passing cab, and just like that, it stopped for him. He didn’t have to run after it, waving his arms, or wait for another to come by like Gareth often did. This one had stopped simply because Egil ordered it to.

This was the same man who'd spent the previous morning moping on Gareth's sofa. He'd seemed small, then, but Gareth realized he was more like a shadow cast along a wall: larger than Gareth could even comprehend. When he held the carriage door for Gareth, Gareth climbed hurriedly inside, unable to resist his friend and hero's cold authority. Once Egil was settled opposite Gareth, he rapped his knuckles on the roof, and they were off. “You’ll pay the fare, won’t you, Gareth?"

Gareth startled at being addressed. “Of course. Where are we going?”

“The courthouse. It’s time I talked to the Magistrates.”

A thrill went through Gareth. He was about to see Egil confront Unity. One of his stories was playing out before his eyes. “Is it safe for you to go there?”

Egil’s smile was all arrogance and secrets, sharper than the one Gareth was used to. “They can’t hurt me. With the Magistrate’s brother at my side, they won’t even try. I don’t mean to use you, but your status is convenient."

"I'm just happy to assist," Gareth said. “But…you won’t hurt Moira, will you?”

Egil sighed. “I’ll do my best not to,” he promised. Shadows from the carriage roof cut across his face, turning his eyes into a flat black. Gareth had always found those eyes too knowing, too stern, too weary for the exuberant young man Egil was pretending to be. Finally, he understood why. “Speaking of, what did you think of our conversation last night?”

"I hardly know," Gareth admitted. He hadn’t understood most of it, but one thing stood out to him as strange: Leandros' reaction when Gareth told him about it. Gareth had been pondering it all morning. "But I wonder if it’s not all linked. Are you absolutely certain those"—he had trouble even speaking the word—"assassins that attacked the prince weren't sent by Moira?"

Something sparked in Egil's eyes, a bright curiosity. "You think your sister could have a man killed?"

“Technically, she has resources. Morally, well…it seems I don’t know her as well as I thought. Prince Nochdvor seemed to think she’d try it, at any rate, and the timing seems strange. Are you going to tell the Magistrates about what happened? Prince Nochdvor said he didn’t want anyone knowing—”

“Leandros’ pride will be the death of him,” Egil interrupted coldly. “I’ll keep his secret, but they will find out. Did he say why they might want him dead?”

“No, but I suspect I might know. I never told you this, but when the Nochdvors first arrived in Gallontea, I heard some of their conversation with the Magistrates.”

“Go on.”

Gareth told Egil all of it — how the Magistrates pushed for an investigative mission, how Leandros convinced them to let him lead it. He told Egil about the mysterious "orinian woman" the princess mentioned and about Leandros' threats to tell the world—something. Something to do with the kidnapping, something he hadn't voiced out loud. "There are other truths I could tell," he had warned the Magistrates. What had he meant?

As he explained this last part, Gareth watched Egil for signs of recognition, but his expressive friend was gone and the stern hero left in his place gave Gareth nothing. “I’ve never seen the Magistrates so offended,” Gareth finished. He’d lowered his voice to a whisper, at some point, and cleared his throat self-consciously. “If they’re so worried about Leandros might share, isn’t provoking him a risk?”

Quiet fell in the carriage. Egil’s face was serious and thoughtful, almost entirely in shadow now, but he then surprised Gareth by sitting back and laughing. “You do hear a lot, you nosy thing!” he cried. “You’re right, of course. Unity has ways of keeping people quiet, and they rarely hesitate to use them. So why hesitate with Leandros?”

"Are you asking me? Or just hypothetically?" Gareth asked, a little shaken by Egil’s sudden change in demeanor. Suddenly, without Gareth noticing, Egil had become Roman again. But to sit at such extremes, which version of him was the truth? How could Gareth know Egil so well but not know Roman at all?

Roman sat forward. The boyish grin Gareth knew was back on his face, holding none of the danger of Egil’s smile, and Gareth felt himself relax. This was the smile that made him want to earn Roman’s favor, that made him feel like he was part of a secret: him and Roman, against the world. With a smile like that, how had he not realized Roman was Egil sooner? “Hypothetically. Thanks to you, I have a theory; I just need your sister to confirm it.”

Gareth nodded, awed, but something in the response made Roman look away. Not for the first time, Gareth only realized how disarming Roman’s eyes were after they had settled elsewhere. “Quit looking at me like that, Gareth,” he said. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, I just didn’t know how to tell you. I’m sorry.”

Gareth stared more. Was Egil apologizing? To him? “How would you like me to look at you?”

“It’s only me. Just treat me the way you always have.”

“I…” Gareth began, taken aback by Roman’s tone. It was unsettlingly close to desperate. “I’ll do my best.”

Roman sighed in relief and passed a hand through his dark hair, a nervous gesture that suited Roman Hallisey far more than it did Egil. Outside, gulls shrieked and hooves rattled on hollow stone as they passed over the bridge to Unity’s island.

Finally, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the courthouse. Roman was out first, stretching and yawning while Gareth paid the cab fare. He was so casual before the solemn stone and sharp spires of Unity’s oldest, grandest building that Gareth briefly wondered if he’d really broken onto the island at all. That had been only two days ago; was he not afraid they'd catch him? “The Magistrates will be in court for another hour yet,” he warned Roman.

Roman shrugged. “Then we’ll wait. Come with me.” He led Gareth around the courthouse to the field behind it, where wild taurel bloomed. Off in the distance, the ground sloped down toward the cliff's face, and nothing but blue horizon stretched beyond.

“Take off your jacket,” Roman ordered.

Just as he had back in the alley with Prince Nochdvor, Gareth obeyed without question. He did feel exposed, standing out in the open without a jacket or a waistcoat, but he busied himself by draping the jacket neatly over his arm. When he looked up again, Roman had stripped out of his tie, waistcoat, and shirt, leaving him in only a scandalous undershirt, his arms bare to the shoulders. Gareth tried not to look, but his gaze caught on Roman's scars—he had them on his arms, his shoulders, his hands. One knotted, particularly gnarled scar rested above his heart, just visible over the top of his shirt.

“I’m going to teach you how to fight,” Roman announced when Gareth still didn’t ask.

“What! Mr. Hallisey, I’m in a full suit. I can’t—”

“You can. If you learn to fight in a suit, you’ll be ready for anything.”

“Why don’t you have to wear your suit?”

“Because I already know how to fight,” Roman pointed out. Gareth couldn’t argue with that. “Earlier, you charged into that alley without a thought. Were you going to fight seasoned mercenaries bare-handed? If so, you’re more powerful than I thought. Maybe I needn't go to this effort.”

Gareth winced, duly chastised. “I didn't realize you saw that."

“Of course I saw; I was watching. Now, will you learn from me, or not?”

“Yes,” Gareth said quickly, then adding, “Please.”

“My first lesson is this: pride and a misplaced sense of duty will only cause you pain. It's not your job to defend Leandros, and if you’d joined the fight earlier, you only would have been in his way. Do you understand? Instead of only keeping himself alive, he would’ve had to worry about you, too. If you can't win a fight, you need to run. If you can't run, incapacitate your opponent to the best of your ability and then run. And know that you won’t be able to win most fights."

Gareth opened his mouth to complain about how blunt Roman was being, but remembering who he was talking to, shut it again and nodded.

“Good. Now, try to hit me.”

Gareth hesitated, but Roman only gave an encouraging nod. Hitting Egil, his dark hair alight under the midday suns, his expression serious and determined, felt blasphemous. More than that, it felt impossible. But Gareth wanted to be a dutiful student, so Gareth tried. Unsurprisingly, he missed, Also unsurprisingly, Roman dodged and swept a leg under Gareth, knocking him to the ground.

“You compromised too much of your balance. Get up. Try again.”

This time, Roman guided Gareth: he showed Gareth how to make a fist that wouldn’t break his fingers, how to plant his weight and hit opponents where they’re weakest. He was a patient teacher, and he had them go again and again and again. By the time he finally landed a hit, Gareth ached everywhere. "You're getting it!" Roman said when he did, laughing. Then, without warning, he feinted a hit toward Gareth's shoulder and actually hit him in the stomach, so hard that Gareth grunted in pain and dropped to the ground. Disappointed, Roman frowned down at him. "You let your guard down."

“You’ve been going easy on me!” Gareth accused. That speed—he hadn't even seen the hit coming.

“Of course I have. I’m Egil.”

It was the first time he’d said it, and it made Gareth shudder. While they fought, he'd almost forgotten. How did Roman do that? How did Roman make him forget? He ducked his head, embarrassed. Floundering and flailing in front of Roman was one thing; doing so in front of Egil was another. He wished he could sink into these grasses and disappear into the soil.

He must have made a pathetic sight, because Roman rolled his eyes. “You’re just getting started. It took me a lot of time, practice, and training to get as good as I am today.”

Gareth found a pebble in the grass and tossed it in Roman’s direction. Not close enough to hit him — that would be sacrilege. “I find that hard to believe. I’m sure it was effortless, like everything you do.”

Roman dropped into a squat across from Gareth, thoughtfully silent. After a moment, he said, “In my first fight, I was beat nearly to death and left bleeding in the street.”

Gareth gasped. “I’m so terribly sorr—”

Roman raised a hand to cut him off. “It was a long time ago. But if I’m hard on you, that’s why. I had to teach myself to fight; I would’ve killed for a teacher.”

Once again, Gareth ducked his head, his cheeks burning. His aching muscles, at least, distracted from the shame, so he focused on those. "I appreciate the attempt, Mr. Hallisey, but there comes a point where it's too late to pick this sort of thing up. I'm too old for this."

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Gareth realized how silly they must sound to someone like Egil: someone timeless. He didn't know how old Egil was; even with all his supposed knowledge, he couldn’t begin to guess. The historical records simply cut off after several centuries; it was as if Egil had sprung into the world fully formed. Belatedly, all the times Gareth had called Roman son or lad or young man flashed before his eyes in succession. He groaned and hid his face behind his hands.

“You say that too much,” Roman said, making Gareth lower his hands again to look at him. He'd sat in the grass and, in a contrarily childlike gesture, was running his fingers through the blades, flattening them just to tousle them up again. “You call yourself old and tired, making yourself the punchline of your own jokes. By repeating the lie, you’re not only changing the way others see you, you’re changing the way you see yourself. Gareth, you’re not old, not boring, not useless. None of it’s true.”

“I—thank you,” Gareth said, unsure what else he could say.

Roman shrugged, then laid back in the grass. They sat in silence for a while, letting the flush from all that activity fade until they’d recovered enough to enjoy the breeze. Eventually, Roman pointed at the two suns occupying the cloudless sky. “Did you know they’re getting closer to each other?” he asked.

“Who are?”

“The suns. Sol and Del, they’re called in Troas. We orbit them, but they also orbit each other. With each cycle, they get closer. We just can’t tell because they’re so far away.”

“Are you an astronomer, too?” Gareth asked. He couldn’t remember any Egil stories that mentioned it, but it wouldn't have surprised him.

Roman scoffed and shook his head. “I had a friend who was; she explained it to me. It was something to do with magnetism. She thinks they’re going to coalesce to form one big star, but they’re just as likely to collide, explode, and kill everyone. Either way, it won’t happen for thousands of years.”

“Atiuh would never let such a thing happen.”

“If he exists. If he cares.”

“You think he doesn’t? Where do you think all this comes from, then?” Gareth asked, gesturing around them.

Roman shrugged. “If he exists, he’s either dead, gone, or no longer gives a damn. Ah, I’m sorry, Gareth; I know religion’s important to you. What do you say we change the subject before one of us hurts the other’s feelings?”

“Fine,” Gareth agreed, a little icily. He mopped the sweat from his brow and glared up at the suns, knowing his skin would be as red as an osun petal later. With his naturally darker skin, Roman probably wouldn’t even burn. At the thought, Gareth frowned. It was strange: Troas was the one province on the continent that didn’t have its own Egil stories.

“You said you’re from Troas, didn’t you?” Gareth asked.

Roman shot him a sly look. “I was wondering when you’d start asking questions."

"To be honest, Mr. Hallisey, I have so many that they're eating me up inside."

Roman chuckled. Even that sounded boyish, youthful, dangerously close to being a giggle. It was no wonder Gareth hadn't guessed his real age. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Everything?" Roman repeated. "A tall order. We'd be here a very long time."

Primly, Gareth said, “I believe starting from the beginning would be easiest.”

“Ha! Very well. Once, there was a man who loved a woman and a woman who loved the stability the man gave her. And when two people have those kinds of feelings, they—”

Gareth wrinkled his nose. “Mr. Hallisey, please.” He hesitated. “Would you still like me to call you that, by the way? Or should I say—”

“If you call me Egil, I’ll never speak to you again,” Roman said. “But fine, I’ll start here: I was born in a nameless village in Troas to Christian Hallisey and Catalina Rosario-Reyes. As a traveling merchant, Christian was barely home, so I spent most of my childhood with my mother. But she died when I was young, so I was hauled off to travel with Christian.”

“I’m very sorry,” Gareth said on reflex. “I’m glad your father returned for you, at least.”

Roman laughed. “I wouldn’t say ‘at least.’ Christian was a cold man, made crueler when he looked at me and saw only Catalina. I looked too much like her, he always said. Maybe I still do; it’s been so long I don’t remember what she looked like.”

Gareth didn’t know what to say to that, either. He knew little about the field of psychoanalysis, but of course he’d spotted the signs of a troubled childhood in his friend. They were hard not to spot. He’d just had no idea they ran so deep; Roman always seemed to cheerful, so at ease.

Guessing at Gareth’s thoughts, Roman gave him a wry smile. “What you think people are—what they seem to be—is rarely the truth. We all pretend, some of us better than others. In my case, everything about me is a construction. It has to be, because what's underneath is too damaged to let anyone see,” he said. Seeing Gareth open his mouth, he quickly added, “Don’t apologize again. I know how dire it sounds, but I don't see it that way. The past is the past, and things are always getting better. There's ups and downs, but I have to believe they always will."

Gareth considered the bags under Roman’s eyes, the blood dried on his swollen lip, the bitter twist to his smile. If this was better, Gareth was afraid to hear about the before.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Roman slung an arm over his face, hiding it in the crook of his elbow. He continued, “Anyway, Christian and I settled in Alfheimr, where I started school. But then he died, too, and I couldn’t afford the tuition without him. I got kicked out, and Unity found me much later.”

“Unity?” Remembering the conversation he’d overheard the night before, Gareth asked, “You worked for them?”

“I did; that’s why I’m telling you all this now. You know so many stories about me, Gareth, but they mean nothing without context. If you’re going to study me, let it be the real me. And when you hear what I did for Unity, just know that I was desperate."

"After leaving Alfheimr,” he continued, “I was homeless and friendless. Have you ever gone hungry, Gareth? The first week without food is always the worst. Every inch of your body screams for nourishment. After that, the pain dulls and you feel yourself growing weaker every day, inching closer to death. I lived alone in the wilds for a time, but—,” Roman cut himself off there, trying to find the right words. “It wasn’t sustainable. A hard winter drove me to Gallontea. I did odd jobs there, but it wasn’t enough. I lived on the streets.”

That, at least, was part of Egil’s history Gareth knew. Some stories said the Oracle found him, raised him, and trained him. Others said he distinguished himself in front of some lord or other — stopped a thief, saved a woman’s life, performed some small act of heroism. Gareth never would have guessed the truth involved Unity, Egil’s greatest enemy. He never would have guessed he'd one day have Egil reciting his history to him, almost mechanical in delivery.

“Living like that,” Roman continued, waving a hand lazily, “You have to beg or steal to survive. My pride, so kindly taught to me by my mother, didn’t allow the former, and I wasn’t very good at the latter. In the end, some officers picked a fight with me; I defended myself and was thrown in jail for it.”

"Roman, that's terrible. I'm sorry," Gareth repeated.

“Stop apologizing and stop saying that like you understand. You can never understand," Roman snapped. As soon the words left his mouth, though, he winced. He forced a smile again as he sat up, but this time, it had a sheepish turn. “Now I’m the one who should apologize. This is hard to talk about, for obvious reasons."

"I—," Gareth began, only to cut himself off. He'd been about to say that he understood, but Roman was right to say that he didn't. He couldn't. Their lives had been about as different as two people's could be. "There's no need to apologize."

Roman shrugged. "Anyway, it was in that prison that Unity found me. They offered me a job with security, a salary, and answers to questions I’d long sought. Of course I took it.”

“What questions?” Gareth asked.

“That’s a different story, I’m afraid,” Roman said. "This, right now, is about Unity. Have you ever thought about where their power comes from?"

Gareth hadn’t, but he paused to do so now. “Its laws?”

“Not quite, but good try. Its laws are a product of the power, not the source of it. Let's look at Alfheim: both the reigning monarch and the province's Council have power in their own ways. The monarch commands the army, issues decrees, and appoints Council members while the Council controls the flow of commerce. You could say those are the sources of their power, but the answer's even simpler than that: it's their people. Their citizens. If Rhea turns out to be so terrible of a queen that her own people and army stop obeying her, she loses her power. If the Council suddenly starts imposing taxes so steep the people can't pay, in time the Council's funds will run dry and they lose their power. Obviously, these examples are oversimplifications, but they illustrate the point. Alfheim's government only functions because its people believe in it and obey it. They follow laws and pay taxes to avoid punishment, and in so doing, they give their government the very power needed to enforce those punishments. It's a constant cycle, and it's the same for Unity: all of us, you and I, everyone in this world— we give Unity its power," Roman said, gesturing broadly between them.

"But think about it: Unity has little financial power, no standing army. When it comes to inflicting punishment, its jurisdiction is limited to interprovince disputes and crimes committed against Unity itself. If an Alfheim citizen breaks one of their King's rules, the Royal Army can enforce it. What can Unity do? Why does everyone listen to distant, faceless strangers telling them what they can and can't do? It's not that they believe in the work Unity does, or that they have any amount of faith in it; most of them don't even think about Unity in their day-to-day lives."

"But the Royal Army doesn't just enforce their King's laws," Gareth argued. "They enforce Unity's, too."

Roman pointed at him, the suns catching on some sharp, excited emotion in his dark eyes. The whites of them seemed to flash in the light, giving him a wild look. "Yes! And that's because their king directs them to. But why?"

"I—I don't know," Gareth admitted.

"It always comes back to fear of punishment. Knowing that Unity can punish disobedience, if it comes to it. But what does a king fear?" Roman shrugged. "Well, it depends on the king. The answer is complicated, but I can sum it up in two words: the Enforcers."

There was that word again: enforcer. Gareth had heard Roman and Moira mention it last night, but it meant nothing to him. Seeing that on Gareth's face, Roman continued, "Everyone cares about something, and Unity is very skilled at identifying and manipulating those things. That's what the Enforcers were created to do: they exploit weaknesses, uncover secrets, exert pressure on a person's weakest points. They blackmail a judge who gets caught in a scandal. They threaten a man's wife until he does what they want. They frame a prince who's already distrusted by his people. And then, every so often, when someone steps out of lie, they make quick and tidy examples of them: they crush rebellions, like in Ejera. They assist in coups, like in Alfheim. They destroy industries, like in Adondai. They kill a hero who dared to oppose them."

"Like in Histrios," Gareth breathed. "Then—then Prince Nochdvor wasn't the one who killed you?"

Roman rolled his eyes. "Not now, Gareth. I'm trying to go somewhere with this. Sometimes, there are cases where Unity has no leverage—like with Orean. Orean doesn't answer to Unity. In theory, Unity should have no power over Orean, but they do. If Unity prohibits trade with Orean, the Unity provinces will comply. If Unity calls for armies to march on Orean, the Unity provinces will comply, even if they don't want to, even if they don't have anything against Orean themselves. I'm afraid that we're about to see Unity make an example out of Orean."

Gareth twisted his hands anxiously in his discarded jacket. "What—what exactly does that mean?"

Roman shrugged. "It could mean anything from making Orean join Unity to destroying the city entirely."

"Look, I'm beginning to accept that there's things about Unity I don't know, but I can't believe they would be capable of that."

Roman shook his head. "You think that because they've trained you, from birth, to think that. It's not just politics Unity controls, Gareth, it's everything. The news that's published in the papers, the fashion you see in storefronts, even the sermons you sit through on Sundays."

Gareth scoffed, but Roman insisted, "I mean it. Does your church speak well of Unity? Uplift those that go into its service? Emphasize the importance of obeying authority as a virtue? That's not Atiuh's teaching; it's Unity's. Do you know how much your sister donates to the church, Gareth? Do you know how much Unity donates? Unity's influenced your religion so long there's no extricating them, and with propaganda like that, they don't even need an army."

"But fashion?" Gareth asked.

"Magistrate Diomis is considered quite the trendsetter. Last year, during the conference season, they attended an evening party in gigot sleeves. It was unusual, at the time; gigot sleeves haven't been in vogue for almost a century. But today, walking through the city, you'll see them in every ladies' storefront. You'll find illustrations of Diomis in nearly every fashion magazine on the continent. People care about the things that have personal meaning to them: now, Magistrate Diomis is familiar. They know Magistrate Diomis, have a connection to them. Magistrate Diomis is in their magazines smiling and playing sports and going out for walks; surely, someone like that wouldn't hurt Orean. And if they did, maybe Orean deserved it."

Gareth felt ill. "What does all this have to do with you? You were one of these Enforcers?"

Roman sighed. "Yes. They called me Egil, but they also called me their hound."

"Hound?" Gareth asked. "As in…the Hound of Unity?"

The Hound of Unity was a folk figure from the early eleventh century; wherever he went, always at Unity's bidding, death followed. Gareth had always dismissed the stories as a shameful fabrication, nothing more than slander; he never would have imagined that the Hound was his hero, all along.

"I'm afraid so," Roman said, not meeting his eyes. "Something to know about the Enforcers—to Unity, we're not people. We're soldiers, spies, servants. Unity takes us in when we're young and friendless and pliant and shapes us into weapons. They taught me things that would make me useful: combat, politics, poisons, law. More than anything else, though, they taught me unwavering loyalty. I'm not trying to sound self-pitying, or like I'm making excuses. I just want you to understand. They break us down, isolate us from the world and any prior loyalties. To that end, they strip away our very identity; Troas was my home, but after they took me in, I wasn't allowed to return there." With a sad smile, Roman said, "They even took away my mother's name for me. She called me Amaimon—Amaimon Roman Rosario-Hallisey. Unity wouldn't let me go by it; they insisted Amaimon had to die and made me the Hound, instead."

“This sounds like fiction,” Gareth said, horrified.

“I wish I had the luxury of agreeing.”

“If all this is true, how did you get away?”

Roman’s answering grin was feral. “A hound that's been beat eventually turns on its owner. I fled Gallontea and hid long enough for them to forget about me, and then I used the name they gave me as a weapon against them.”

It was Gareth’s turn to look away. This filled the gaps in his research, explained every account that claimed Egil was running from something, but he couldn't get past the horror of it. He realized what that something was: his family, his ancestors. Unity. They had done this to Roman, and to countless others. “And there are more of them today? More Enforcers?"

“Several on the team, in fact. I bet you could name them.”

“Evelyne Corscia,” Gareth guessed.

Roman sighed. Somewhere behind them, the clock tower chimed a new hour. “Yes.”

“Ivor Linde and Aaror Thomason, too,” Gareth said. The pattern was obvious: it was the security team. But that meant… “And Ms. O’Neill, too?”

“The orinian that was hanging all over Leandros? Yes, definitely her,” Roman said.

Gareth felt ill. “But Eftychia is so gentle,” he protested. When he closed his eyes, though, he saw that circle of dead assassins.

“She’s trained to come off that way. Gareth, what did you think of me when we first met? You trusted me enough to let me drag you, wounded, to a hospital—after I openly admitted to following you. You let me near your wife and daughter. You asked me to stay in your house, and I could kill you a dozen different ways without even exerting myself.”

Gareth swallowed.

“Don’t trust them. They’re not coming along to protect you; they’re not even coming along to rescue King Amos. They have their own mission.”

“And what is that?” Gareth asked.

Instead of answering, Roman pushed to his feet and began gathering his scattered clothing. “You'll see soon enough. Let’s head inside.”

Sorry this chapter took so long! I know it's pretty dense, substance-wise, but I'm very curious to hear what you all think of it.

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