Fractured Magic: KICKSTARTER and Chapter Twenty-Nine

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Your support means the world to me. Thank you for following along and reading the book, and I'll see you all again once we start book 2!

Roman shivered and rubbed his hands together to generate friction. The first real chill of autumn had struck, made more bitingly cold by the suddenness of it. The cold stung his fingers and cheeks, and when he breathed, it clawed into his lungs, painful and purifying. Summer had lost its footing, and because the universe was cruel, it had done so on the very day they’d left Gallonten. Perhaps Atiuh saw what they were doing and disapproved of their mission.

Roman snorted at the thought.

No one else seemed bothered by the cold, but they sat nearer the fire than Roman. He alone kept his distance, watching and thinking. They’d set up a small camp, their modest tents surrounding them and the captain’s trailer parked nearby. The trees of Lyryma towered over the team on one side, but despite their looming presence, spirits around the fire ran high. They always did, at the start of journeys like this. Even the coldest among them, Evelyne and Aaror, smiled as they listened to Eresh tell a story about Representative Biro tripping at Unity’s spring ball.

As Eresh’s story reached its end, Trin said, “Mr. Ranulf, aren’t you a writer? Will you give us a story as well?”

Gareth jumped at suddenly being addressed, and Roman almost laughed at the nervous, panicked look the man shot him. If he had to guess, most of Gareth’s stories involved a certain hero. “My writing is mostly nonfiction,” Gareth said. “Not very suited to this sort of setting, I’m sure you can imagine.”

“You study Egil, don’t you?” Thea asked. She had a wool blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. “An Egil story sounds perfect.”

Roman stood and approached the fire, Gareth wincing with every step. “Go on, Gareth. I bet you know an Egil story we don’t.”

Ivor, prodding at the fire with a stick, rolled his good eye. Leandros, sitting between Gareth and Thea on a toppled log, coughed to hide a laugh. Though Gareth shot Roman an exasperated look, his cheeks turned even more flushed and blotchy.

After more prodding from the others—particularly Trin and Thea—he finally conceded. It wasn’t without another nervous glance toward Roman, though. “Oh, very well. I suppose I do know an Egil story or two. In honor of our destination, I’ll tell a story about Illyon. Or Ehloran, as it was called in those days.”

It began as most Egil stories do, in the halls of Devikra Storm-song, the Great Oracle of Damael. Egil was her most trusted agent, her dearest friend. Whenever her visions posed problems only he could fix, she summoned him to her gilded halls. On this day, Egil entered and bowed low before the oracle, the air between them heavy with incense and cleansing herbs.

“My lady,” he said, kissing the hand she offered to him, “How may I assist you?”

With an imperious wave, the oracle’s servants left them alone. Devikra reclined on a bed of lavish pillows and regarded Egil carefully. “Heed my words well and do as I ask,” she said. “Many lives depend on it.”

“Of course, my lady,” Egil said, for disobeying the oracle always came with consequences.

“Go to the city of Ehloran. When you reach the white tree at the center of the city, travel north. Continue north and do not stop.”

“Why?” Egil asked, unable to stop the question.

Rather than answer, Devikra said, “You will know when you have reached your destination.”

Egil held his tongue, though more questions burned on its tip. This was the way of the oracle’s prophecies—they were mere glimpses into the future. They created more questions than they answered. Egil had seen them fulfilled enough times to know that much. He also knew that the oracle was never wrong, so he bowed again and left to prepare for the journey, making all haste to Ehloran and finding the white tree, whose petals had just begun to fall.

He turned north and, on foot (as he knew not how far he had to journey), he began to walk. He walked up and down the hilly streets of Ehloran, always pointing due north and not letting distractions break his stride. He passed through a market, the smells of the foods there taunting him. A beautiful woman in a glittering dress danced in the street to swift music, and he longed to stay and watch. When he reached a tall fence, he paused, but he could not disobey the oracle, so he climbed. Finally, at the city gates, he was forced to stop when an alfar man dressed in rich robes fell at his feet.

“Please, Egil!” the man cried. “I am Trym Bech, leader of this city. I ran as soon as I heard you were here. My daughter Rylia has gone missing. Please, I need your help finding her. I fear something terrible has happened.”

Egil thought about the oracle’s words. You will know when you have reached your destination. Egil did not yet know, so he said, “I am sorry, I cannot. If your daughter is still missing when I return, I will help you find her.”

Egil did not know that, the day before her disappearance, Lady Rylia’s father announced she would be married. The intended prince, who’d come from Alfheim for the lady’s hand, was a kind man, but Rylia loved another, a young woman of humble birth. Confronted with the choice to marry someone she did not love or break her father’s heart, Rylia chose to flee into Lyryma. But distraught and alone, confused by the darkness, she lost her way.

A witch who lived in the forest, a daughter of Tellaos, found her and spirited her to Tellaos’ realm, intending to feed the pretty young noble to the soulless beasts who roamed the dead forest there.

Egil stepped around Rylia’s father and left Ehloran, continuing down into the grassy fields of the Valley of Creae. He walked until he reached the borders of Lyryma Forest, and then he walked further yet. He walked until his feet ached and his eyes drooped, and finally, he reached his destination.

As the oracle had said, he knew it immediately. On the strange, winding path before him, Egil saw the swirling of dark magics. Shadows swelled and sharp branches hung low, and Egil knew—for Egil knew many things about magic—that if he continued down this path, it would lead him to the place between worlds. Egil thought quickly. He pulled down winding vines from the tall Lyryma trees, tied a thousand together to make a rope. He tied one end of the rope to a tree root and the other around his waist so that he would be able to find his way back.

Thus secured, Egil started down the path. Slowly and somehow all at once, the trees changed. He found himself in Tellaos’ dead forest, which was silent except for the sounds he himself made. No birds sang up high, no creeks bubbled in the distance, and no wind rustled the decaying leaves under his feet. Egil continued through the forest until he heard a woman’s cries for help. Following the sound, he found Lady Rylia weeping at the base of a twisted tree.

“Who are you?” she asked when she saw him.

“I am Egil. Your father sent me to find you,” answered Egil, and Rylia knew she was safe, for Egil was well known, by this time. Egil helped her to stand and, with his rope made of vines, began leading her back to their world. A voice stopped them, then, crying out, “Stop! You will not take her! Stop!”

It was the witch who’d brought Rylia to this realm.

Egil instructed Rylia to follow the rope back. Then he turned to face the witch, who shot lightning from her palms, meaning to kill him with her magic. The lightning struck Egil in the chest and the witch cackled, sure she had won, but when the lightning died Egil had not fallen. He had not even been harmed.

“Are you a child of Tellaos, too?” the witch asked him. For if he had magic, he must have been born of one of the Guardians.

“I am Egil. My magic is my own,” Egil said. He drew his sword and pointed it at the witch. “I am taking the lady back to her home.”

“You cannot!” the witch wailed. “The beasts of the forest were promised a meal! They will become violent if they do not have it!”

“Then you shall be their meal,” Egil said. Leaving the witch among the shadows, he followed the reeds back to Lyryma, where he found Lady Rylia waiting. Together, they returned to Ehloran, and the Lord of the city thanked Egil with a grand celebration.

Roman stared into the fire while Gareth told his story, his mind far away. He closed his eyes and saw the shapes of the flames burned against his eyelids, Devikra’s face among them, disappointed and pitying. Gareth was getting it all wrong.

Roman hadn’t been working for Devikra long when this happened. It came after they’d met in Damael but before he met Leandros in Lyryma. He hadn’t been any sort of functional person, then. He’d been damaged and angry, but Devikra had given him the chance to turn that into something good—to reclaim Egil, the title Unity had given him.

She’d had a vision of Lady Rylia being kidnapped, that part was true, but she’d ordered Roman not to go. Conscience heavy with the weight of his past sins, desperate to do anything he could to offset it, he’d gone anyway and he’d found Rylia safe at home. It was his arrival and the chaos that followed—Egil was becoming a household name, by then—that created an opening for Rylia to be kidnapped. Finding her hadn’t been as easy as Gareth made it out to be. It had taken weeks and a heavy ransom, but Roman finally managed to track them. And to get Rylia back, he had to kill them.

He’d returned to Devikra with even more guilt added to the weight on his shoulders and the blood of petty extortionists on his clothing. Devikra had given him that look, then, half-disappointed and half-pitying.

“If I hadn’t gone, she might have died,” he’d told her.

She’d replied, “If you hadn’t gone, she wouldn’t have gone missing.” Roman had learned then not to play with fate, and he’d learned that the oracle’s visions always came with tricks.

“Roman?”

Roman startled, snapping back to the present to find Leandros and the team staring at him. Leandros’ brow was creased with concern. How many times had he called Roman’s name?

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you’d tell a story,” Leandros explained. “As I recall, you used to be quite good at it.”

Beside him, Gareth nodded. His cheeks were still blotchy, but no longer tomato-red. “Please, Roman. Put your stage voice to use.”

“Well,” Roman hedged, looking around at the expectant group. He didn’t feel like storytelling, especially in front of Enforcers, but of course Leandros knew that. A story would draw Roman out of his ruminating, at least. Of course, Leandros knew that, too. “All right, fine. But nothing about Egil.”

Thea whooped and the diplomats cheered politely, but before Roman could say a word, Evelyne stood. She shot him a glare and stormed off.

“Don’t mind her,” Ivor drawled, sitting back on his hands. He looked like he might fall asleep at any moment, but his gaze was sharp and locked on Roman. “She’s just grumpy.”

Roman didn’t let himself watch her leave, claiming her newly-vacated seat, instead. “I’ll stick with Gareth’s theme and tell a story about Creae Valley. How many of you have heard of Runderath?”

Today, Calaidia knows peace—or something like it. It hasn’t always been this way. For the years of the Great War, violence and tragedy were all anyone knew. Bloodshed was a way of life, death a price to be paid. During that war, we fought, we died, and we fought on still.

Unity didn’t exist, then. No government could stay in power long enough to soar to its heights. As soon as the conquering class showed weakness, someone else rose up to overthrow them, and behind it all was Tellaos, one of the Guardians Atiuh made to protect Calaidia. Tellaos believed the world would do better without its greedy, selfish mortals, so he pitted everyone against each other and stoked the flames of war.

And where were the other Guardians? Why weren’t they stopping him? No one had seen them since the war began, but one day, someone did.

Runderath was a young alfar Captain, a fierce fighter and a small-name hero. It happened during a rare stalemate. The suns hung crimson in the sky and Runderath picked his way through a bloody battlefield, searching faces of the fallen for the men he’d lost. No other commanders bothered; there were too many dead, and the nameless faces were just that—memories that would fade. Runderath thought differently. Memories they may be, but they were memories he would honor.

Aside from a lone dragon flying off in the distance, its mournful keen echoing through the valley, Runderath believed himself the only one on the field, so he was surprised when he came upon two figures with their backs to him.

“Ho there!” Runderath called, approaching them. “The alfar army will be coming through soon! They won’t be happy to see outsiders here, so you’d best go, for your own sakes.”

The figures turned toward Runderath, and Runderath stopped short, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The figure on the right, a human clad in black armor with silver-streaked hair, kept his eyes on the horizon. He wiped them like he’d been crying.

When the other turned, Runderath saw that the ground beneath her feet was charred. Her eyes, flat black with specks that glowed like smoldering sparks of a dying flame, bored into him. Her skin, golden-red like a sunsset, was covered in swirling patterns that flickered, twisted and glowed like tongues of fire. Long wings, shimmering and incandescent like a dragonfly’s, stretched behind her.

“Why would you warn us?” she asked. “You are alfar.”

The man beside her met Runderath’s gaze. Though he looked not nearly as alien as his companion, he unsettled Runderath more. He was solid, weighty, eternal. His eyes had seen many things and the weight of them all shrouded him like a cloak.

“I am not cruel. I would not see two nonviolent creatures harmed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Runderath.

“And how do you know we are nonviolent?” the woman asked with a dangerous smile.

“I am unarmed; you are not. You could have killed me on sight.”

The man inclined his head in acknowledgment. “And what are you doing here alone, unarmed?”

“Searching for my fallen men, that I may administer last rites,” Runderath answered. He had been through so much, felt so much pain and seen so much death, that he no longer feared either. So he asked, “And you?”

The man and the woman looked at each other and, at once, began to pace around Runderath in slow, concentric circles.

“We are trying to decide how to stop our brother,” said the woman.

“We cannot oppose him directly—both out of love for him and because of the laws our god laid upon us,” the man continued.

“But we cannot stand by while he destroys the world our father made for you,” the woman said, passing in front of Runderath.

“Tellaos must die,” the man said.

“If he does, the war will end,” the woman added.

The man stopped in front of Runderath. “We need a champion who will fight him in our name. I look into your soul and I see light, Runderath id Kamar. Will you be our champion?”

Runderath opened his mouth and found he could speak no words, for he finally knew whose presence he stood in. Atuos and Ellaes, Atiuh’s Guardians. He bowed by way of answer, and when he straightened, Atuos smiled.

Ellaes pressed a kiss that burned like fire to Runderath’s forehead and said, “With this I give you a taste of our magic, that you may meet Tellaos as an equal.”

Atuos drew his sword, made of the same fathomless black as his armor, and offered it up to Runderath. “With this, I give you our blessing. Face Tellaos with courage and heart, and you will not fail.”

Runderath took the sword and felt some light emotion rise in his chest. He realized it was hope. “Thank you. I will not fail.”

“Be brave, Runderath. We will be with you in spirit,” said Ellaes. With that, they were gone, vanishing in the time it took Runderath to blink. Without the weight of Atuos’ sword in his hand, or the fire of Ellaes’ magic in his heart, Runderath would have feared he’d imagined them.

Runderath did not return to his army’s camp. Instead, he turned east and began the journey to Tellaos’ mountain. On this mountain was a castle the Guardian loved more than any others, which sat overlooking a bloody battlefield. Its walls were darker than the nights in Rhycr and stronger than the scales of the dragon who lived inside. Anyone who entered—aside from the great serpent himself—never left. This castle stands today, in the heart of Orean. This is the bloody history of Creae Valley.

Runderath fought his way through the valley to the base of the mountain. He climbed it, Atuos’ sword strapped to his back, and burst into Tellaos’ castle. From there, he climbed the winding stairs to Tellaos’ watchtower, confident in himself and his mission. Finally, Runderath faced the black serpent.

“Tellaos!” he called, “I have come to end your reign! No longer will the people of Calaidia fall prey to your games!”

The dragon laughed, loud and terrible. “Is that so, little hero? What’s to stop me from killing you where you stand?”

“I have magic, that I may meet you as an equal, and I have this sword, a blessing from those who would see you defeated.”

Tellaos stopped laughing. He knew those words, and suddenly he recognized Ellaes’ magic in Runderath. In his rage, he blew a jet of flame at hero. But when the flames cleared, Runderath stood in the same spot, unharmed. He raised Atuos’ sword and charged.

On the battlefield below, soldiers of every species paused their fighting to gaze in wonder at Tellaos’ castle, which rumbled and shook in great waves. Then, the dragon’s watchtower began to crumble, and all anyone could do was watch as it collapsed, leaving the southwest corner of the castle open and exposed. As if a spell was lifted, all dropped their weapons and began to cheer. They knew, in their hearts, that Tellaos was dead.

Later that day, a party went up the mountain to search the rubble. Stories were already circulating about the hero who’d been seen fighting his way to the mountain, and they hoped to find him alive so they may thank him. But neither Runderath nor Tellaos were seen again.

From that day on, the Story of Runderath the Mighty, the hero who stripped Tellaos of his power but perished in the process, was told across the content.

At that, the diplomats around the fire began to clap, expecting Roman had reached the end of his story, but Roman held a hand up. “I’m not finished.”

The night following Tellaos’ defeat, the great dragon clawed his way out of the rubble while the mortals celebrated in the valley below, unaware. Tellaos found two figures waiting.

“Your plan failed,” he snarled at them, “I’m not dead.”

“We did not mean to kill you,” Ellaes said. Soft flames flickered across her skin, their glow the only light on the dark mountainside. “Only to punish and humiliate you.”

Atuos took Ellaes’ hand and said, in a voice harder than diamonds, “And now, to bind you.”

Together, Atuos and Ellaes bound Tellaos’ magic within him. Using their magic, they trapped him in a weak mortal form so he would no longer have power over the people of Calaidia. Then, with heavy hearts, they denounced him as a Guardian and left him to live the rest of his mortal life alone.

When Roman fell silent, Eresh blurted, “That’s not how the story goes! Tellaos can’t live!”

Roman stood and stretched. “It’s the story I’ve always been told,” he said. The popular version ended with Runderath slaying Tellaos, but this was the version his mother had told. It was one of the few things he remembered about her. “Do you really think it’s so easy to kill a Guardian?”

“Well—”

“Either way, it’s just a story,” Roman continued with a shrug. “I’m tired; I think I’m going to retire for the evening. I’ll see you all bright and early again tomorrow.”

_____

An orinian woman with glowing scars carved into her skin stood on the bridge to Unity Island. She pressed herself against the stone wall, looking down at the water swirling below. For longer than she could remember, she’d been chased by something, a feeling she couldn’t name. A creeping feeling, like the brush of fingers on the back of her neck, or shadows shifting at the corner of her vision. The black waves reminded her of that feeling—angry, insistent, inviting. They called to her, just like the grasping darkness.

But she couldn’t give in to it. There was a closer call, even more insistent. It was near, now. She pushed herself away from the rail and turned to face it.

A man walked down the bridge toward her, the hard soles of his snakeskin boots clicking on the cobblestones with each deliberate step. He looked human—handsome in a broad, hard-edged way. His eyes, the pupils rectangular like a goat’s, rested on the clock tower above and behind Mercy.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked as he neared. There was no one around but them. Finally, he looked at Mercy and smiled, his teeth too many and too sharp. If Mercy’s heart still beat, the sight would have stopped it. The man’s smile dimmed as he took in the fading glow behind her skin, and he cupped her cheeks between his hands. “Oh, I’ve left you alone for too long. You’ve almost run out. Mercy, are you still with me?”

Mercy shivered and covered his hands with her own. His hands, the only things keeping her tethered to this world. Instead of answering, she asked, “Why are we here, love? Why did we come to this awful place?”

“Mercy,” he warned, voice low. He leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I know it’s awful, but I needed to see it, just once. I needed to see it before I destroy it.” He looked up at the clock tower again. “The Guardians’ pride and joy, their solution to everything. It meant so much to them. To him.”

He took her hand and pulled her toward the Island. “Let’s get a closer look.”

They hadn’t moved more than twenty feet before Mercy yanked her hand back, saying, “I can’t.” When he kept walking, she called, “Tellaos! We can see it from here. I don’t want to go further.”

“Yes,” Tellaos said, his voice like the slither of a snake through tall grass. “Yes, you’re right. Mercy, come to me, and then we can return home. I swear it.”

It was then that the two of them noticed a procession approaching from the island. Horsemen rode at the front and at the back, a sleek black carriage between them. The carriage slowed as it came upon the god and his late wife. Then, it stopped, and a woman peered out the window.

She was on the older end of middle-aged and she carried herself rigidly. Her eyes were wide and fixed on Mercy; she paid Tellaos no mind.

Tellaos began to scratch the scales that peeked over the top of his shirt collar. Looking between his lover and this woman, he asked impatiently, “Who are you, then?”

The woman finally looked at him, taken aback. “Moira Ranulf, a Magistrate of Unity. I could have you thrown in prison for speaking to me that way.”

Tellaos sneered. “You’re no Magistrate of mine. Mercy?”

Mercy took a step towards the carriage, but Moira Ranulf called, “Guards!” The two horsemen were there in an instant, one barring Mercy’s way with his sword and the other training a gun on her. A breeze swept past them, blowing Mercy’s veil away from her face, and Moira sank even deeper into her carriage. “You’re the one the Nochdvors saw,” she breathed.

Before Mercy could advance, Tellaos held a hand up to stop her. “Pardon?” he asked. “What was that?”

Moira was pounding on the roof of her carriage, no longer listening. “Go! Drive! Get me away from here!”

Tellaos sighed, then signaled Mercy on. He looked away as his wife killed the horsemen, wincing when he heard bones snap and Moira scream. He scratched his arms, the mortal body Atuos and Ellaes trapped him in not enough to contain the multitudes swirling inside of him.

Moira’s screaming stopped.

“I hate having to do that,” Tellaos said, turning back around. “Mercy, is there any chance someone in that throne room survived when you grabbed the king?”

Mercy frowned, her delicate features twisting in thought. “I don’t know. The magic was overwhelming.”

“We’re going to have to find out.” Tellaos continued to scratch, then stamped his foot. “Damn Atuos! Damn Ellaes! Damn this body! Mercy, come here.”

Mercy approached, but when Tellaos held a hand out to her, she skittered back. “No, wait. I don’t want to feel it again so soon.”

Tellaos kept his hand out. “I won’t force you, Mercy, but if you do this one last thing for me, everything will get better. I need your help. I need my body back, love.”

Mercy reluctantly approached. “What do you want me to do?”

Tellaos whispered the answer in her ear. When she nodded, eyes wide, he said, “Now, open up.”

Tellaos put something in Mercy’s mouth. It was insubstantial like smoke, yet solid enough that he could hold it between his fingers. It was alive—alive, but not living. It writhed and squirmed in his fingers like an angry black centipede.

The warped, twisted power of the thing hit Mercy immediately, spreading warmth all the way down to her toes. The glowing in her veins flared bright, so bright that she watched Tellaos’ pupils shrink. She’d been cold earlier, but now she was too hot. This was too much, not enough. Burning, freezing. She couldn’t contain it. She must.

Tellaos watched her through it all. Finally, she breathed in, and her heart quietly, faintly began to beat again. That other call, the one that echoed the crashing black waves, felt much further away.

“There you go,” Tellaos murmured. “It’s almost over now.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him. She raised her hand into the air and used the magic Tellaos had given her, just as she had when she’d stolen Amos Nochdvor away.

Around them, Unity’s bridge began to collapse. It started at the ends, heavy rocks falling to the water. The bridge tore itself apart stone by stone, taking the bloodied carriage with it, but the patch Tellaos and Mercy stood on remained intact, hovering above the water.

Tellaos laughed, pulled Mercy tighter, and kissed her. Mercy snapped her fingers and, like that, they disappeared as the last of the bridge fell.

_____

Aleksir Bardon sat stiller than he had in his life, eyes wide and fixed on the white dragon in the center of the room. The dragon was bowed low, unable or unwilling to look at the recipient of his message, but Aleksir looked at her. She sat upright and rigid, her face an impassive mask. Aleksir had worked with her long enough to recognize things others would not—the subtle pursing of her lips, the flare of her nostrils. The Oracle of Damael was angry.

“What did you just say?” she asked.

The dragon bowed, if possible, lower. His long snout nearly touched the ground. “Unity Bridge has collapsed, my lady. No one was harmed, but Magistrate Ranulf seems to be missing. I flew here as soon as I heard the news.”

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” she said. All around her, her courtiers whispered and shifted. The looks they shared with each other all asked the same question: Why hadn’t the oracle foreseen this?

Devikra Stormsong stood, and the whispers fell silent. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing even I can do to prevent natural disasters such as this. Please, see our messenger to a spare room and get him whatever comforts he requires. Send a missive to Unity offering our aid. Another vision may be coming on, so I’m afraid I must return to my chambers. Aleksir?”

Aleksir followed Devikra out of the hall. Once it was just the two of them, Devikra began to pace, rubbing her temples as she passed back and forth in front of Aleksir, who watched her warily. “The entire bridge?” she hissed. “Bridges don’t just collapse!”

“What do you think happened?” Aleksir asked.

“I’m more concerned about why we didn’t see it coming. Aleksir, dear, will you go ask Wil about it? I have something I need to do first, but I’ll meet you upstairs.”

“Yeah, sure. You all right, Devikra? You seem sort of…worried,” Aleksir said. It was out of character for her.

Devikra took one of Aleksir’s hands and patted it fondly. “I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me—I’ll be with you shortly.”

“Sure.”

Aleksir left Devikra standing in the hallway, weaving through the temple and down long, winding stairways until he finally found himself in a cool basement. He knocked on a heavy door before entering a large room, everything about it orchestrated to make the space comfortable for the oracle.

The oracle herself sat in the room’s small kitchen space, and Aleksir dove to catch the door before it slammed, instead guiding it shut with just a soft click.

Aleksir slipped his shoes off, let the room’s calming atmosphere do what it was designed to do. It was filled with soft, heavy fabrics—sofas that looked like they’d swallow you whole, pillows on the sofas and grounds and anywhere they could feasibly fit, paisley patterned curtains that diffused the suns’ rays and set the room alight with a cool glow. Aleksir padded over to the small kitchen.

“Wilhara,” he called gently. The oracle ignored him, tapping her charcoal against the counter and squinting at the sketchbook in front of her. “Wilhara?”

When she still didn’t respond, Aleksir said more firmly, “Wil.”

Wilhara looked up, apparently surprised to find Aleksir standing there. An alfar with orinian blood, Wilhara’s ears were sharp but expressive, flattening against her head in surprise. Paired with her doe-like eyes, she looked perpetually frightened. The set of her mouth, in contrast, made her look vaguely annoyed. Aleksir knew she was rarely the former, but frequently the latter. He was very fond of her.

Wilhara was the true visionary behind the oracle’s persona. Devikra taking public credit was a front that worked well for both of them—they knew their strengths and their weaknesses. For Wilhara, dealing with people was one of the latter.

“Oh, Aleksir. When did you get back?” She spared him an effusive smile in the time it took to locate and sip her tea, then went back to studying her drawing book. Aleksir recognized the bitter smell of that brew. It never meant good things for Wilhara’s headspace.

“Just this morning,” Aleksir said. He’d been annoyed when Devikra had suddenly pulled him from Gallonten, and now he was even more so. He wondered what must be happening in the city today—what Egil must think of this bridge business. Aleksir wished he’d gotten to say goodbye. “Did you have a vision?” he asked.

After a minute of consternated silence, Wilhara asked, “Hmm?”

Aleksir glanced at the drawing book, where Wilhara recorded her visions. They contained an array of people and places she’d neither met nor visited, and she’d found it was easier to draw than describe. Then Devikra, who’d seen more of the world, could interpret them for her. Aleksir liked to think he provided the moral support. Really, he just ran errands.

“Are you having a bad day?” Aleksir asked, rephrasing the question.

“Oh, very. The visions won’t stop.”

“What do you mean?” Aleksir asked.

“I’ve had a dozen today, at least.”

“A dozen?” Aleksir asked. It was usually considered huge if Wilhara had more than five visions in a week. Aleksir pointed to her book. “May I?”

Wilhara pushed the book at Aleksir. “I suppose you might as well. I don’t know what any of it means.”

Aleksir flipped through the newest pages with a frown. There were a lot, and they all seemed to be related. There was Orean, wonderfully sketched, with a dragon flying above it. The next page was almost the same—same city, same view—but without the dragon. Following that, everything was on fire and a giant smudge blocked out a third of a page. Aleksir peered closer—not a smudge, but frantic scribbles. That explained the charcoal all over Wil’s dress, then.

“It was like living shadow,” Wilhara said quietly. “I didn’t know how to draw it.”

The next page made Aleksir gasp. It was Unity Bridge, falling into the water. “When did you do this one?” he asked Wilhara.

Not picking up on his urgency, Wilhara regarded it and tugged at her skirts, smoothing them out only to tug them into wrinkles again. She deposited more charcoal on them as she did. “This morning, I think. No—wait, yes. Yes, right after breakfast.”

Aleksir stared at her. According to the dragon’s report, that would’ve been around the time that it happened. He turned the page again and blinked in surprise. It was Egil—a dozen sketches of Egil smiling, frowning, crying. His eyes, his mouth, his hands. There were other faces he recognized, too—Leandros Nochdvor, Maebhe Cairn. There was a dancer on a stage, a woman with cold eyes and a sword strapped to her back. There was even a drawing of himself in here. He looked up at Wil. “What is this?”

Wilhara rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know. I just kept seeing your faces, one after the other, and the visions are so blurry. They change so fast. That’s not the last of them.”

Aleksir turned the page again, then quickly shut the book. He felt ill. “There’s no way. How did he…?”

“I don’t know. I just see him like that over and over again like that. I don’t know!”

Aleksir grabbed Wil’s hands and rubbed soothing circles into the backs of them. “Hey, hey, it’s all right. We’ll talk to Devikra about it. I’m sure she’ll have answers.”

Wilhara nodded. “Yes. Okay. Where is she?”

“She went to—Shit. I meant to tell you. Unity’s bridge is gone.”

“The bridge is gone,” she repeated slowly. “Like my vision.”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“But I saw it this morning!” She shook her head and clenched her hands in her skirts. “I usually get more warning than that! First, I missed King Nochdvor’s kidnapping, and now this. What’s happening to me?”

Aleksir was saved from having to answer when the door flew open. It struck the wall, and Wilhara flinched at the sound. Devikra stormed in, all righteous fury and terrible beauty, looking significantly more tired than she had downstairs. When she noticed Aleksir and Wilhara staring, she tucked it all neatly away behind a smile. “Wilhara, dearest, I wasn’t sure if you’d be up. I’m sorry about the noise.”

“I understand. Aleksir told me what happened.”

Devikra joined them at the table and dropped into the seat across from Wilhara. “How strange this all is. Wil, you didn’t see anything about this, did you? Something we might have missed?”

Without prompting, Aleksir opened the drawing book up to the page with the falling bridge and showed Devikra.

“When did you…?”

“This morning,” Wilhara said.

Without looking up, sensing more than seeing Wilhara’s distressed look, Devikra said, “Don’t fret, Wil. There’s nothing wrong on your end. I know what’s causing this.”

“You do?” Aleksir asked.

“Wilhara is rosanin.” Devikra looked up. “Rosanin abilities don’t work on the Guardians.”

“The Guardians?” Aleksir waved a hand. “Ellaes and them?”

“Ellaes, Tellaos, and Atuos, yes.”

“But they’re not real.”

“They’re very real. They’re as real as you or I.”

“It’s true,” Wilhara said. “I forgot about—I mean, it’s happened before. Tellaos has changed my visions.” She met Devikra’s eye, then quickly looked away. “It was a long time ago.”

Devikra nodded. “And I suspect it’s Tellaos again. Your visions have been acting up since Nochdvor’s kidnapping, right? I fear he had a hand in that, too.”

“What does he want?” Aleksir asked.

“That’s a good question. I could only theorize.”

“So if Wil’s visions can change now,” Aleksir said, a concept that defied everything he’d ever learned about the oracle’s visions, “What about all the other ones she drew today?”

Devikra looked sharply at Wil, who passed the book back to her. Devikra spent more time on each drawing than Aleksir had, her eyebrows drawing closer together with each page she turned. Normally, Wilhara’s drawings were clear and logical, not frantic and chaotic like these. Aleksir watched Devikra run her fingers over two almost identical drawings of him—identical except for his expressions, one happy, one anguished.

She said, “Your visions are inconsistent because you’re seeing the different possibilities. Every time Tellaos changes course, he changes the futures you see. He must have been doing a lot of thinking this morning.”

Wilhara flipped to the page of Egil drawings and tapped at it insistently. Devikra eyed the pages, then Wilhara. “You want me to help him?”

Wilhara sighed, relieved, and nodded. She turned the page. “This was the only one that was clear.”

Devikra studied this last image for a long time. Wilhara fidgeted; Aleksir looked away. He couldn’t bear to look at his hero, not like that.

“I’m sorry,” Wilhara said. Again, she said, “That was the only one that was clear.”

“I have to warn him,” Devikra said.

She stood, and Aleksir and Wilhara shared a look. “Will that help?” Aleksir asked. “I thought there was no changing Wil’s visions.”

“It will help,” she said. She said it so certainly, too, that Aleksir believed her. “Aleskir, are you coming?”

“To see Egil?” Aleksir asked, perking up. “Can I?”

“You are the closest of friends now, from what I read,” Devikra said dryly. “Make up your mind quickly. This threat is one he won’t be able to stop alone.”

“I’m coming,” Aleksir said. He considered this news about the Guardians, and he considered Egil. He asked, “Does he really have magic? The first time we met, I thought I saw something weird.”

Devikra stilled. “What did you just say? Weird how?” she asked.

“I dunno, just…odd. I swear, for just a second, his eyes turned all black like some sort of monster’s. Devikra? What is it?”

“He’s in more trouble than I thought. We have to go now,” she announced. “We’ll be back soon, Wil.”

Before they left, Aleksir glanced one more time at Wilhara’s final drawing, a drawing of Egil laying dead among the ruins of Orean. He wasn’t a religious man, but he said a quick prayer to Atiuh.

He hoped, desperately, that Devikra could prevent this, but he also remembered the hatred on Egil’s face whenever Aleksir had mentioned her.

He prayed that Egil would let them save him.

And that's a wrap on book one! It's now time for a hiatus for me (while I handle Kickstarter fulfillment), and then the next Sheridan Bell mystery! After that, I'll see you all again with book two.