Fractured Magic: Chapter Four

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.

Halfway back to Gallonten, Gareth paused on Unity’s bridge to lean as far as he could over its stone walls. Hungry black water churned below, but Gareth wasn’t worried about the old brick giving way. It had stood for two thousand years and would stand two thousand more. To Gareth, this bridge marked a passage between worlds. Above, below. Unity, Gallonten. The change started somewhere around the third set of lampposts, where Gallonten fell away behind and the bridge stretched on ahead until all that remained was Unity, alone against an endless horizon. Gareth was always relieved to cross back over to Gallonten, to descend from these distant heavens.

He’d heard the two places referred to interchangeably: Gallonten meant Unity and Unity meant Gallonten. That was nothing short of offensive to Gallonten’s bursting population. If you’d seen both, if you’d crossed this bridge and stood on Unity’s cobbled paths, then you’d know how different they were. Physically, “Unity” referred to the small island off the coast, set apart from the mainland to create an illusion of impartiality. By contrast, Gallonten was just a city.

Gareth ran his hands over the stone, the cold seeping up through his palms, and looked back at the island. From here, it looked peaceful, the clock tower ticking on while two alfar changed the world Gareth knew it. His eyes were drawn habitually toward the clock’s glowing face.

“Blast!” he suddenly swore, taking off down the bridge at a run. It was five minutes to the hour. He was going to be late. He hurried through the public square, weaving and murmuring litanies of “Terribly sorry,” and “Pardon me,” as he jostled bodies. From there, he turned down a side street, then two more. His destination wasn’t far from the island, at least, and he reached it just as the clock struck the hour.

While chimes rang out over the city, Gareth stopped beneath a colorful archway to catch his breath, the words “Rinehart Festival Grounds” painted on its fluttering canvas in friendly lettering. A ticket booth sat ahead, a dryad girl with flowers in her hair and skin the texture of birch lounging behind its counter. A line of people spiraled out from it, and Gareth had just started scanning the faces for anyone familiar when small hands grabbed the leg of his trousers and piping voice yelled, “Surprise!”

Gareth whirled to face the newcomer, his hand flying to his heart in a feint of shock. “Ofelia! By the Three, how sneaky you are!”

A round-faced girl in a neat purple dress grinned up at him. She laughed as Gareth scooped her up. “Hah! Momma said you wouldn’t be fooled.”

“Your mother was wrong. My, you’ve grown so much since I left that I barely recognized you!” Gareth said, smiling as Isobel joined them. “Hi, Bel.”

“It’s only been a week, Gareth,” Isobel said with a fondly exasperated smile. She leaned up for a kiss, then hesitated and drew back to study her husband. “Why are you out of breath? Darling, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing; I just lost track of time on the island,” Gareth said. He wouldn’t say any more. He’d made up his mind not to say any more. The Nochdvor’s secret wasn’t his to share. But sharing secrets with his wife was like sharing secrets with himself, so surely she didn’t count? He glanced around, noticed there was no one within earshot, and blurted, “Orean kidnapped Amos Nochdvor. Alfheimr wants to go to war.”

Isobel clapped her hands over Ofelia’s ears and also looked around. “Are you supposed to be telling me this?” she hissed.

“I wasn’t even meant to hear it! It was an accident! Ah, well…mostly an accident.”

“You were eavesdropping again, weren’t you? On who? Moira?”

“All three of them. And the alfar prince and princess,” Gareth said weakly.

“Oh dear,” Isobel said in a matching tone. “Tell me more.”

Quickly, quietly, Gareth recounted everything he’d heard, Isobel fiddling with the ribbons on her sleeve as she listened. “Something seems off about all this. Why are they so sure it was Orean?” she asked when he’d finished.

“Well,” Gareth hedged, thinking back, “It sounded like an orinian did it.”

“Just one? One orinian managed to kidnap a king?”

“Multiple orinians, must’ve been,” Gareth guessed. The mention of magic didn’t seem worth repeating. Leandros Nochdvor’s threats about secrets and poison stuck with him, though. There was definitely more to the story.

“Must have,” Isobel said, also sounding unsure. “Leandros Nochdvor. Isn’t he the one who—”

“Who killed Egil in Histrios,” Gareth finished. “Yes.”

Isobel raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask him about it?”

“Believe me, I wanted to. It didn’t seem like the right time.”

Tired of being ignored, Ofelia tugged on Gareth’s sleeves. “Do you think that man will be here?” she asked loudly. “The one from last year? With the fire whip?”

“I’m sure he will be,” Gareth said. Sharing these secrets with another had helped settle his nerves, but so had just being with his family. Isobel and Ofelia always had a grounding effect on him. Leaving them for Gallonten was the thing he hated most about fall, which was why this year, Isobel suggested she and Ofelia join him.

Ofelia nodded solemnly. She looked like her mother, with dark hair and round features, but she had Gareth’s smile. “Let’s go find him.”

“We have to get inside first, dear,” Isobel said. She and Gareth each took one of Ofelia’s hands and they joined the short line curling out from the ticket booth. It was usually busier—the darkening clouds might have frightened away other would-be festival goers, but Gareth was willing to put up with a little rain for a break after the morning he had. He tried not to think about it anymore, focusing on the present instead.

“You look beautiful today,” he said to his wife while they waited, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. She wore an elegant blue day dress, recently altered to accommodate her pregnant belly, and a hat to match. She smiled at the compliment and twined her free hand with Gareth’s, and they stayed that way until they reached the ticket booth. While Gareth fished out his pocketbook, the nympherai ticket-girl leaned over the counter and waved at Ofelia. Ofelia waved back, staring with wide eyes at the pinks and purples of the girl’s hair.

“You like them?” the girl asked.

Ofelia nodded and the girl laughed, the flowers swaying with the movement. She passed three tickets to Gareth, then plucked one of the flowers from her hair and tucked it behind Ofelia’s ear. Isobel thanked the girl as they continued through the archway, and there, the path widened as cobblestone street gave way to a dirt trail packed down by thousands of feet over hundreds of years. A wave of colors, sounds, noises and smells hit the Ranulfs at once. While Gareth and Isobel paused to adjust, Ofelia forged ahead, already pointing out all the things that caught her eye.

Gallonten, an amalgam of all the peoples under Unity’s banner, offered plenty of distractions, but none were so famous as the Rinehart Festival. It ran alongside Unity’s conferences every fall and attracted performers and artisans from all corners of the continent.

As they walked along, Ofelia tried to stop at every juggler, stilt-walker, and fire-breather that caught her fancy, only dissuaded when Gareth entreated: “Let’s see what they’ve got further along. The gentleman with the fire whip could be just around the corner.” Here, a maranet sat on the corner selling tapestries colored with vivid dyes. There, a pair of nympherai dancers whirled in tiered skirts on a platform, lending their hooves to the beat like a percussive force. Up ahead, a half-alfar sold handmade lace and ribbons that fluttered into the path when the wind blew their way. Gareth even saw one orinian, though they were uncommon in Gallonten.

They played games, shopped, watched a puppet show, and bought toys and treats for Ofelia. After a while, when their feet started to drag and Gareth’s pocketbook was feeling thin, Gareth bought them all meat pies and hunted for a place for them to sit. They ended up awkwardly perched on the fence separating the lawn from the paths.

“Gather round, gather round! This is a show you won’t want to miss!” a voice called. “Hey, you three! We have benches open if you’d like real seats, though far be it from me to critique where such a lovely family eats.” The speaker stepped into the Ranulfs’ path, silhouetted against stormy gray clouds. He was a young, pretty-faced man, sapien like Gareth and Isobel and dressed in a showy red suit and feather-plumed hat. He knelt in front of Ofelia and flashed a boyish, dimpled smile. “Do you like Egil stories, little one?”

Isobel laughed and covered her mouth with her hand. “Someone in this family certainly does,” she murmured, quiet enough so that only Gareth could hear—at least, it should have been quiet enough, but the hatted man followed her gaze over to Gareth. He was striking beneath the hat, with light brown skin and large, thick-lashed dark eyes, but there was a weight in his gaze Gareth hadn’t expected. He seemed out of place here among the commoners; Gareth would have been less surprised to see him on the stage.

“I take it the lady means you, sir?”

Gareth cleared his throat. “Yes, I study Egil folklore.”

“He’s writing a book on Egil,” Isobel explained on his behalf.

Something in the young man’s smile dimmed, but he gestured to an outdoor auditorium off the main path. “Then I can’t promise you haven’t heard the story before, but I can guarantee we’ll still make it worth your while.” He leaned in as if to share a secret. “The Webhon Players are rising stars in the world of theater. They’re performing for Unity itself next week.”

“Which story is it?” Gareth asked.

“The Castle of Eide.”

It was a lesser known Egil story—still common enough, but the most common version was based off a novel that had taken significant creative liberties. The original story, though...well. Gareth couldn’t keep from saying, “How strange.”

The young man hadn’t expected that answer. “Strange?” he asked.

“Well, the story is originally based on the old coup in Alfheim, you know. Did you do that on purpose?”

“Do what?” the young man asked, still not following.

“Prince Nochdvor is here in Gallonten today—his first time leaving Alfheimr in over sixty years,” Gareth said.

The young man looked like he’d been struck. For a moment, he simply stared at Gareth with wide, dark eyes, and then stood. “I didn’t realize,” he said, his voice too calm for all of the emotions flickering across his face. “It’s just a coincidence. We’ve been performing this show all season.”

“O-oh,” Gareth said, not sure what he’d said wrong.

Isobel looked between them, eyebrows raised, then cut the tension. “We may as well stay, Gareth; I’d like to have some time off my feet.”

The young man flashed a grateful smile, though it was a mere shadow of the one from before. “A smart choice,” he said, ushering them toward the benches. “Enjoy the show!”

Gareth, Isobel, and Ofelia had only just settled in their seats when shadows shifted in the wings and fog crept onto the stage in thick tendrils. Paired with the overcast skies above and stone skene behind, it set a dreary mood. The feather-hatted young man jumped onto the stage and waited. Even when the crowd quieted, he continued to wait until every whisper had ceased, every fan had stilled, every eye had turned his way. When he breathed, it was like he cast a spell: the audience leaned in with his inhale, back again with his exhale. The spell crested when he finally spoke, his voice softer, more solemn than it had been before.

“Heroes rise and fall,” he simply said. “In the years following the Great War, we saw the cycle again and again. Hope, then defeat. Determination, then corruption. And before his fall, Egil shone the brightest. But where did that fall begin?”

The young man paused while the crowd clapped; Gareth joined in, his excitement rising.

“Egil, as you seem to already know,” the man said with a twist of his lips, a little mischief making its way back onto his face, “Became the world’s guiding star after the Great War. He saved lives, ended wars, and made trouble as much as he made a name for himself. But like all heroes, he had doubts. Like heroes inevitably do, he grew tired of bearing the people’s hope. He retired, settled in a golden city that has since passed into memory. The city was ruled by a king who had seen the rise and fall of the Great War, and Egil enjoyed peace there for a time. But when the King fell ill, the people turned on the ruler who made them what they were. Let us take you back in time and tell you how Egil saved a king and lost his peace.”

The young man backed off the stage as he spoke, and from the other wing, two men walked on. The first was dressed in golden fabrics draped over and around him, secured by delicate fastenings. He was elegant and soft, in stark contrast with the man beside him.

“How fares thy father this evening?” the second asked. This one wore an archetypal hero’s ensemble, stage armor with a sword at his side, and had a full beard with graying hair around his temples. He had to be Egil. The other was the King’s “son,” a steady friend who appeared in many Egil stories. Having seen the real thing in person just that morning, the imitation paled in comparison.

“His state remains unchanged,” answered the prince, “And the Council grows restless. I fear what will happen should they take matters into their own hands.”

“He will improve before they do. I am certain of it,” Egil said. Then, both hero and prince stopped abruptly as a woman entered from upstage left. “Ho! Who approaches at this late hour?”

The newcomer to the stage, a young woman, moved toward Egil as if guided on a breeze. She was dressed in an old gown decked in glittering gold. Anyone who knew Egil also knew her, the woman who flitted at the periphery of all the world’s stories, heralded strange comings, and foretold calamities: the Oracle of Damael. Her path wound inextricably with Egil’s, the Oracle warning of troubles and Egil preventing them.

“My Lady Oracle,” Egil said stiffly. “What bringest thou to me?”

“My Lord Egil, a warning I must share with thee.”

“Then the sun shines and the wind blows, ev’rything as ever it was. My friend, may I present to thee the Oracle of Damael? Whilst a dear friend she be, I suggest thou leavest ere she speaks her portents. They are never kind to those unfortunate enough to hear.”

Before the prince could leave, the oracle stopped him. “I bid thee stay. This concerns thee, young prince. There is one in the castle who would see thy father killed. Stop him before he sees it true.”

They really were quite good, Gareth thought as the show continued. Being well versed in Egil folklore meant that he was picky; he hated when the stories were sensationalized, when they mischaracterized the hero, or focused too heavily on his alleged magic. Because of that, because of the poor novelization, this story was already at a disadvantage. The real Egil was interesting enough without being fictionalized.

Egil was a phenomenon Gareth had been studying for decades: all of the peoples of Calaidia had their own cultures, their own histories, their own stories, and yet they all told stories of Egil. Even for all of that, there were few official records of him, and the records Gareth did find were contradictory, confused. Some living few from the older peoples still remembered him, but when Gareth asked, they refused to speak of him. It made Egil an interesting puzzle. At once he was the most spoken of person in the world and the least known.

While Gareth’s fascination was predominantly academic, it was also an idolization that went back to his childhood. There was something about Egil. Even when you knew the man from the stories didn’t exist, you wished he had. Even when the stories ended, when you had to step back and remind yourself that magic isn’t real, Egil still taught you the value of hope, the strength to slay your monsters, and that magic is real and it’s in the small things. The man from the stories was hope, kindness, compassion incarnate. And that made the truth of Histrios so much more jarring.

Gareth looked around the crowd, curious to see their reactions. People seemed to be enjoying the show, but one stood out to Gareth: the young narrator again. He stood off to the side, watching Egil with an expression so dark it sent a chill down Gareth’s spine, but that gloom fell away when the oracle’s actress turned in his direction. He smiled, then went a step further and made a funny face at the stage, the kind Gareth might pull to make Ofelia laugh. The actress quickly averted her eyes, mouth turned down at the corners like she was fighting a smile.

When the young man noticed Gareth watching, he tipped his hat and bowed with a flourish, making Gareth tear his eyes away. By the time he’d refocused on the play, trying to ignore the strange chill of the young man’s eyes on him, he found he had missed a portion of it. That was no matter. He’d read the novel, much as he wished he could forget it: the prince and Egil investigated the assassination plot and discovered the king’s own brother conceived it. Though heartbroken over his uncle’s betrayal, the prince helped Egil stop him, laying a trap for the traitor.

Egil fought the uncle with choreography that danced magnificently across the stage. At the fight’s climax, the uncle stumbled; Egil held his hand out and a shower of sparks shot out from some contraption in the stage floor. Spectators in the front row jumped at the sudden light, then erupted into cheers, and beside Gareth, Ofelia squealed in delight. With the uncle’s defeat, the show was over. Gareth, Isobel, and Ofelia stayed for the curtain call, but by unspoken agreement, they had reached their limits for the day.

“I’m guessing Moira won’t make it for dinner?” Isobel asked as they circled back to the festival entrance.

“Nor for the indefinite future, I’d imagine,” Gareth replied, “By the way, I'd meant to tell you: Prince Nochdvor is a fan of your books.”

Isobel blinked, then laughed. “Oh! How’d you find that out?”

“It’s a rather long story.”

“Then let’s get this one home for a nap, first. Would you mind carrying her for a while? I’m afraid she’s going to fall asleep on her feet if we continue on this way.”

“Of course, dear,” Gareth said, scooping up Ofelia and following his wife through the crowd.

Surely that young man was simply a one-off and will in no way be important to the plot going forward. Right?

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