Fractured Magic: Chapter Six

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 was out for only a moment, opening his eyes again to find Tag standing over him with the knife. He came to quickly after that, scrambling back and holding out a plaintive hand. “Don’t!” he slurred. “Please, let me live.”

“Why should we?” asked the man with Gareth’s cigarette case.

Gareth stared at the muddy ground, blinking back tears. “My sister has money. She works for Unity. Spare me and she’ll reward you, but if I die, there’ll be trouble.”

“How do we know you’re even tellin’ the tru—”

The man cut off with a gasp, the glint of a blade protruding from his chest. As it retracted, a spreading stain took its place and the man’s gasp turned into a wet gurgle. His knees buckled, but before he could drop, a hand wrapped around his head from behind and slammed him sideways into the wall; skull hit brick, and Gareth winced at the horrible crack that followed. The man fell, leaving a stranger with a bloodied sword standing over his body.

“Knife,” Gareth mumbled from the ground. Somehow, the stranger understood his warning: when Tag charged him, he dropped his sword and quickly sidestepped the other man’s smaller blade. He caught Tag’s forearm and twisted, graceful as a dancer, until Tag cried out and dropped the knife. This stranger moved confidently, easily, only as much as needed to get the necessary leverage.

The stranger grabbed Tag by the hair, yanked his head down, and brought his knee up until it met Tag’s face. And just like that, Gareth’s second assailant fell to the ground, motionless. Gareth squinted in the dark. “Did you kill him?”

“Not that one.” The stranger’s voice was gentler than Gareth expected. They both looked at the other’s body, where blood pooled over cold cement, and the stranger added, “I try to limit myself to one murder a day.”

Gareth stared at him.

“Just a joke,” he said when the silence stretched on. “A poor one, maybe. Sorry. Are you all right?”

His accent was soft, the vowels round and the cadence almost songlike. Northern, Gareth thought, though thinking proved hard with the way the world tipped around him. “I feel sick,” he said.

When the stranger approached, Gareth shrank back. “Come on, it’s all right,” the man said, holding his hands up innocently between them. “I only want to check your injuries.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Sorry, but you don’t have a choice.” He sounded too cheerful for the words leaving his mouth, but he was right. This time, when he kneeled beside Gareth, Gareth allowed it, though he still flinched at the man’s touch. “I’m looking for Kramer Street,” he mumbled.

The stranger tutted. “You’re quite a ways off. But it’s too dark to see here—let’s get out of this alley before your friend wakes,” the man said. He retrieved his sword, wiping it off before slipping it into a sheath at his hip, then helped Gareth to his feet. Gareth shrugged him off and took several stumbling steps on his own, but when he fell, the man was there to catch him.

“Woozy,” Gareth said.

“I bet.” When the man felt confident Gareth would stay upright if he stepped away, he bent to retrieve Gareth’s cigarette case and pocketbook.

“Are you going to rob me, too?” Gareth asked, watching.

The man snorted and rifled through the pocketbook, slipping Gareth’s displaced identification back inside in the process. “Nah, there’s not enough in there to make it worth my time.” He then opened Gareth’s suit-coat and tucked it into the inner pocket, giving Gareth’s chest a friendly pat when he’d finished.

“Uh,” Gareth said, awkwardly. “Thank…you?”

“Anytime.”

Gareth squinted at the stranger. With one of his eyes swelling, he couldn’t make out any features in the darkness. “Should we, erm...alert the authorities? Surely, we can’t just leave them here.”

He could feel the stranger’s stare, even if he couldn’t see it. He fidgeted, uncomfortable, when the stranger let out a disbelieving laugh. “The authorities? Really?”

“Is that so strange?”

“In this neighborhood, yes,” the stranger said. “They’re not guaranteed to come, even if we do report this. Mind if I ask your name?”

“Gareth Ranulf.”

After a pause, “Not Ranulf as in the Magistrate of Unity Ranulf, I hope.” There was something strange in the man’s voice, a tension that hadn’t been there before.

“My sister,” Gareth said.

“Of all the rotten twists of fate,” the stranger sighed. “Hold on.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left Gareth alone in the dark. Immediately, Gareth panicked. He was alone and injured, what was he to do if the man had left for good? Was he going to die in this reeking alley? He felt along the wall, grimacing at the grime under his fingers. In this state, he wouldn’t even make it to the end of the alley on his own, let alone home. While he was still deciding what to do, he heard boots on gravel, and then that soft voice again. He breathed a sigh of relief as the stranger, said, “I left a message with the shopkeep next door. They’ll call the cops, or they won’t. Now, come on.”

Gareth gratefully leaned on the man as they hobbled to the end of the alley, where they emerged onto a sparsely crowded street lit by rows of streetlamps. The man pushed Gareth onto the closest bench. “Sit. Let me look at you.” He knelt in front of Gareth while Gareth shut his eyes, fighting another wave of nausea. “Atiuh and the Three, you’re lucky I was following you.”

“Pardon?” Gareth asked, opening his eyes again.

“I said you’re lucky I found you!” the man said with an easy smile. “I’m Roman, by the way. Roman Hallisey. I’d say it’s a pleasure, Mr. Ranulf, but I’m not sure the circumstances warrant it.”

“Have we met before? You seem terribly familiar.”

“I don’t think so,” Roman said. “How could I forget such a pretty face?”

“Is that some sort of jest?” Gareth reached up to touch his nose, but Roman batted his hand away.

“Don’t. You’re swollen and battered, but at least your nose has stopped bleeding.”

“Is it broken?”

“I can’t tell. I don’t think so.”

“And my eye? Is it bad that it’s swollen like this?”

“You have a strange idea of good if you even have to ask. But you’ll live, if that’s what you mean,” Roman said. “It’ll stay swollen a few days, then you’ll have a nasty bruise.”

“You seem to know a lot about this.”

“I’ve seen a black eye or two in my time.”

Unsure how to respond, Gareth said, “Thank you for the help.”

Roman patted Gareth’s knee. “Of course. Anywhere else hurt? They didn’t stab you or anything, did they? I assume you would’ve mentioned it already.”

“No, they just…hit me a few times.”

“Are you still dizzy?”

“No. Yes. Maybe a little,” Gareth admitted.

“You might have a concussion. Or be in shock.” Roman tilted his head to one side. He had wide, dark eyes, framed not only by thick lashes but by dark bags that sat underneath. Brightly, he continued, “I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. How about we get you home so you can call one?”

“Please,” Gareth said. He hadn’t been on his feet even ten seconds, though, before he turned to the side and hurled.

Roman wrinkled his nose. “Strike that, we’re going to a hospital now. C’mon, there’s one on the way.”

Gareth nodded, the taste of bile too fresh on his tongue to argue, and let Roman drag him down the street. Walking helped clear the nausea some, at least, and he eyed the young man’s back. “Roman’s an interesting name. Where’s it from?” he asked, to distract himself.

“Interesting, huh?” Roman repeated. Gareth could hear the grin in his voice. “Thanks, I think. Technically, it’s my middle name. My mother was a bit fanciful, with particular ideas about who she wanted me to be. Romanos is a spirit in Troasian mythology, Ro- meaning ‘above’ and -manos meaning all personkind, or the like,” Roman said, waving his hand grandly. He seemed to make a lot of broad, effusive gestures. “She thought ‘Roman’ was a name for someone who’d do great things.”

“And have you? Done great things, I mean.”

Roman’s smile fell. “That depends on how you define great, I suppose.”

“I’d say saving a man’s life qualifies.”

 “Those thieves wouldn’t have killed you,” Roman said. Despite his flippant tone, he looked away from Gareth, embarrassed. “Probably.”

They walked in silence a moment, until Gareth asked, “Then why did you do it? I doubt anyone else would have.”

Roman shrugged. “I was there; I heard you shout. I had time to investigate.” He looked over at Gareth, then laughed at the man’s affronted expression. “Were you expecting something more heroic? More storybook?”

“No,” Gareth lied, feeling his cheeks flush. “It’s just sobering to know I’m only alive because of a young man’s boredom.”

Roman steered Gareth away from a hole in the pavement. “Let me try again.” Clearing his throat, deepening his voice, he said, “When the fearless hero Roman heard the man’s calls for succor, he could not help but render aid, slaying the wrongdoers and single-handedly snatching Gareth Ranulf from death’s icy grip! After all, such is a hero’s duty!” Returning to his normal voice, he asked, “How was that? Better?”

Gareth hid his face behind a hand while Roman laughed at him. “I’m sorry I asked,” he said. “But I’m glad you did it, anyhow.”

“Anytime. Really,” Roman said. He stopped walking, and Gareth followed his gaze to a squat, prison-like building. “Well, that’s it.”

“That's the hospital?” Gareth asked. It looked dirty. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“In this part of Gallonten, it’s the best you’re going to find.”

Gareth wished he could see better. He reached up to touch his swollen eye, but Roman batted his hand away again. Gareth scowled at him.

“Are you touching just to touch, or do you need something?”

“I just...can’t read the signs. I can’t even tell what you look like.”

“Which is why a hospital would serve you well. If it makes you feel any better, I can’t tell what you look like either. Right now, you look like you spilled a bucket of red paint on your head and ran into a beehive.”

“That really doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Then how about this: I’ll read the signs for you. Realistically, they’ll probably just clean you up and give you something for the pain, and at the very least, we can have them call a cab to get you home,” Roman said, dragging Gareth slowly toward the doors.

“You won’t—,” Gareth began, only to bite his tongue.

“Won’t what?”

“You won’t leave me, will you?” Gareth said, embarrassed. “If I’m keeping you from anything, I understand if you—”

“I’ll stay,” Roman promised. Then, tone turning teasing, he asked, “Do you need me to hold your hand, too?”

“Oh, stop. Just make sure they sterilize everything,” Gareth grumbled. He pushed past Roman into the building.

“Sure, but if you need stitches, I’m waiting in the hallway,” Roman called, trailing behind as Gareth led the way into the surprisingly cheerful foyer. He squinted against the lights, wrinkled his nose at the sterile smell. While unpleasant, it seemed perfectly normal, as far as hospitals went. Seeing Gareth relax, Roman said, “And that’s why you don’t judge a dragon by the shine of their scales. Sit, I’ll talk to the nurse for you.”

Pain raced up Gareth’s side as he slid into a seat at random. He watched Roman greet the nurses, leaning against the desk like it belonged to him. While Gareth couldn’t hear what was being said, he could see well enough in the new light to make out more of his savior. Roman Hallisey seemed one of those individuals whose age was hard to place. He was old enough to be frighteningly competent, fighting like no one had Gareth had ever seen, but he also radiated a youthful exuberance. He was easily younger than Gareth’s forty-two, at least, and was sapien with no signs of longer-lived heritage. If Gareth was pressed, he’d guess somewhere around thirty.

Roman wore a billowing-sleeved shirt tucked into thick sash, which he paired with straight-legged trousers and tall boots. It certainly wasn’t any Gallontean custom. His hair, too, fell between the current fashions—too long to fit the close-cropped style of working men but not long enough to tuck behind his ears, a look currently sported by the upper class. It was too messy to be fashionable, at any rate. His curls seemed permanently ruffled, and Gareth understood why when he watched Roman tangle a hand through them, pushing them out of his face. Nothing about Roman was fashionable or proper, but he had the charm and natural attraction to excuse it. Again, he felt so familiar. The nurse nodded at something he said, then looked over to where Gareth sat. Roman beckoned him over.

“Mr. Ranulf?” the nurse asked as Gareth approached, pushing several forms and a pen across the desk toward him. “Sign these for me, please. We can take you back right away, but your friend will have to wait here.”

Gareth’s hand hovered above the signature line. He glanced nervously at Roman. Seeming to guess at his anxieties, Roman assured him, “I told you I’d wait, Gareth.”

“Thank you. Of course, I’ll compensate you for your time.”

Roman raised an eyebrow. “If you’re offering.”

“I’m insisting.”

“Even better. Now quit making the poor nurse wait on you; I’ll be here when you get back. You can thank me more then, if you still feel the urge.”

Gareth followed the nurse through winding halls to a barren room. While she went to the old sink in the corner, Gareth climbed onto the cold examining table. The nurse cleaned his wounds swiftly, efficiently, and passed him a small canvas bag full of ice. “For the swelling,” she explained. “The doctor will be in shortly.”

Once she was gone, Gareth settled back and draped the ice over his swollen eye. The lights were blessedly dim, here, but the room was too quiet. He hadn’t had time to think since he’d gotten lost, but now, he had too much of it. Strangely, though, his mind didn’t go to his near-death experience or surprise rescue—it went back to his conversation with Moira, to Orean and to this mission. It was horrible. He'd just watched a man die, but all he could do was worry about his own future.

A knock came at the door. Gareth started to push himself up as the doctor entered, but she stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Please, stay as you were. My name is Dr. Carthian. Can you tell me in your own words what happened tonight, Mr. Ranulf?”

Once Gareth explained, Dr. Carthian asked a series of questions about how he was feeling, where he’d been hit, and how much he could remember. His face, his stomach, the back of his head, he said. He felt fine, aside from aches and pains. He could remember his name, the date, his address. He still felt very dizzy.

“I don’t think you’re in shock. May I?” the doctor asked, holding her hand near Gareth’s face. When Gareth nodded, she pressed her hand to his forehead and stood for a long time with her eyes closed. “I see. You have a cracked rib, a mild concussion, and swelling around your eye and nose, but that’s fortunately the worst of it.”

“You can tell all that from just a few questions?”

The doctor smiled and removed her hand. “I’m rosanin.”

“Ah.”

Rosanin were a rare class of individuals born with small, inexplicable abilities. Some had knacks for gambling, others could always point north or see people’s auras. As a child, Gareth had known a young man with an exceptional green thumb. Little was known about rosanin, though. The religious claimed rosanin were blessed by the Guardians, and even with all the advancements of the last century, scientists had yet to come up with a better explanation. Species, sex, family history—there was no predicting it. It didn’t seem inherited, and it wasn’t testable.

“Through touch, I can tell when a person’s body is not as it should be,” the doctor explained. “Many hospitals in cities have someone like me on staff. It quickens the process, saves time and effort.”

“Ah,” Gareth said again, more understanding this time.

The doctor smiled. “You’ll be able to treat your injuries at home, Mr. Ranulf. Get plenty of rest and introduce your former activities slowly. If you have access to ice, ice your nose and eye at least four times a day. I’d also suggest—once you’ve healed—introducing more exercise into your routine. I sensed some concerning buildup in your arteries.”

Gareth blinked. “Yes, Doctor.”

“For now, I’ll give you medication for the pain, but it might impair your motor functions for a few hours. You can take laudanum at home, but not until morning.” While she spoke, the doctor crossed to a cabinet, retrieved a bottle from inside, and poured out a dose. When she handed it to Gareth, he nearly hurled again at the smell of it. He had to steel himself before draining the cup.

“Terrible, I know, but it’ll help,” she said, taking the empty cup back. “I’ll have the nurse bring fresh ice. Would you prefer to wait here or in the foyer?”

“The foyer,” Gareth answered easily. The sooner he could get home, the better. Isobel must be worried. He returned to the waiting room on his own, relieved to find that Roman had indeed waited. The young man sat near the door, picking at his nails, and didn’t notice Gareth until he dropped into the seat next to him.

“Your face is clean!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, apparently the doctor needs to see the injury in order to assess it,” Gareth said dryly.

“Clean him up and he’s suddenly a comedian. Good one, Mr. Ranulf. Why are you sitting?

“A nurse is bringing me fresh ice,” Gareth said, pulling the current bag away from his eye and shaking it so Roman could hear the slosh of water. “I’ve been prescribed bedrest and given medicine.”

“Laudanum?” Roman asked.

Gareth shook his head.

“No?” Roman asked, studying Gareth. His face fell. “Tell me it wasn’t Carujan Oil.”

“I don’t—”

“Clear liquid. Thick and sticky. Smells and tastes like piss.”

“That sounds right,” Gareth said primly. His nose wrinkled at the memory. “Is that bad? She’s the doctor, Mr. Hallisey. I believe she knows best.”

“Sure, but she didn’t give much thought to the poor bastard stuck walking you home. Carrying you home, rather. They don't have a phone here, so we’ll have to find a cab on Main Street. Are you concussed?”

“Mildly.”

“Well, we’ll have to walk two blocks—hopefully before that oil takes effect.”

Silence fell between them while they waited for the nurse. Gareth looked around and fidgeted with his clothes and eventually asked, “Where are you from, by the way? Your accent sounds northern.”

“Good ear. I grew up in Troas.”

That fit into what little Gareth knew about Roman, with his mother’s Troasian mythology and his own darker features. They neared the end of a bright summer, and while Gareth’s skin had tanned beyond its usual pasty white, Roman’s was still several shades darker. The only reason Gareth hadn’t guessed Troas to start was because of the way Roman’s accent had diluted, like he’d been away from home for a long time. “I had a tutor from Troas,” he said. He hadn’t actually meant to say it, which puzzled him.

When the nurse finally arrived to replace the ice, Gareth stood to go and found the world spinning around him. He grabbed Roman’s shoulder for support; funnily, the young man didn’t seem affected by the ground’s rocking. He just gave Gareth an amused look and gestured grandly toward the doors, saying, “After you.”

The gesture tickled at something in the back of Gareth’s mind. It felt strangely familiar. Gareth mused over it as they left the hospital, but it wasn’t until the next block over that it finally clicked. “Wait!”

Faster than Gareth had ever seen anyone move, Roman twirled to face him, his sword appearing in his hand between one moment and the next. He looked around, alert, then frowned at Gareth. “What?”

“It’s you! I know who you are!”

Roman’s expression darkened, and in an instant, he had become a different person, a predator instead of a savior. Gareth nearly staggered under the weight of those black eyes, fixed unblinkingly on him. Had he been in his right mind, it would have felled him. It would have terrified him. Under the medicine’s influence, though he only let out a nervous giggle.

The sound seemed to snap Roman out of whatever he’d fallen into. The young man’s sword disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. He rolled his eyes, which no longer seemed so threatening, and dragged Gareth the rest of the way across the street.

“Atiuh’s name, Gareth, I thought there was trouble.”

“Sorry,” Gareth said, too dazed to really feel it.

“Well?” Roman asked impatiently.

“Well what?”

“You said you know me. Who do you think I am?”

“Oh! We’ve met, sort of,” Gareth said, following Roman’s lead when Roman turned down a dark side street. He didn’t even question it, which worried a distant, sober part of his mind. Mostly, though, he focused on walking on ground that wouldn’t stay still. “This morning, actually. You convinced me to stop for a play. Do you remember?”

Roman thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers and laughed, throwing his head back in delight. “You’re the Egil scholar!”

“That’s me,” Gareth said proudly. “I didn’t recognize you without your hat.”

Roman laughed again, throwing his head back in delight. Even through his mind’s haze, Gareth envied the boyishness of it. “I don’t have the same excuse,” he said. “I should’ve recognized you sooner.”

“It’s because I was painted red.”

Roman bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Walk faster, Gareth. Call it a hunch, but I think the medicine’s kicking in.”

Gareth blinked up at the purple sky as they turned finally onto Main Street. A carriage rattled past, its side lanterns making him squint and avert his eyes, and it didn’t stop even when Roman tried to flag it down. Gareth guessed the blood on his clothing might’ve had something to do with it. “Remarkably fast, this stuff. And strong, too. I hardly feel a thing,” he said. Suddenly remembering the thread of their earlier conversation, he asked, “Are you one of the Webhon Players?”

Roman looked back at Gareth, trying and failing to hide his amusement. “I’m an honorary player, I suppose. I help with the opening in exchange for a place in their camp.”

“I thought your opening was beautiful.”

“Maybe you should stop talking for a while,” Roman suggested. As they walked, Gareth had to rely on him more and more for balance.

He managed to stay quiet for a while, but they hadn’t made it another full block before he asked, “How far away are we? My boots are getting dirty.”

“Those boots were ruined the minute you set foot in Greysdale.”

“Set foot. I get it.” Gareth laughed. “How long to Kramer Street?”

“It’s ten minutes from here, but at the rate we’re going, forty.”

Gareth kicked a loose stone. To his credit, Roman managed to keep a straight face, even after looking over and seeing Gareth’s undignified pout. He asked, “What brought you to Greysdale, anyway? It’s not the sort of place I’d expect to find such an upstanding gentleman.”

“Wasn’t intentional. I just don’t know the city, even after all my visits.”

“Visits? You’re not from here?”

“No, I live in Adriad. Just outside of it.”

“You came to visit your sister,” Roman guessed. “For the conferences?”

Gareth nodded, then paused to peer in the window of a ladies’ hat shop. He balked at how big some of them were. How did the ladies not fall over with those on their heads? When Roman stifled a laugh, Gareth realized he’d said it out loud. He covered his mouth with a hand.

“Atiuh help me,” Roman muttered, though he was still smiling. “And how did you get so lost?”

“I tried to walk home from a meeting.”

“A meeting?” Roman asked, watching Gareth out of the corner of his eye. Under different circumstances, Gareth might have noticed the sharp interest in the young man’s voice. “What kind of meeting?”

“I’m…not supposed to say.”

“Sure, I understand. It’s not like I have anyone to tell, though,” Roman said, watching Gareth out of the corner of his eye. Earnestness dripping from his every word, “I asked because…well, no offense, but you seem like you’ve got something on your mind. It’s something to do with Unity, right? And the visiting prince?”

“Yes,” Gareth admitted, worrying at his lower lip. Roman’s dark eyes made him itch, just beneath the skin. “Someone’s been kidnapped, and Unity’s sending a diplomatic team to Orean to negotiate their return. I’ve been there a few times, so Moira wants me on the team. That’s what the meeting was about.”

Roman’s eyes widened. “Diplomatic? Unity?” he said, tasting the word like he’d never heard it before. “That doesn’t sound like them.”

“And how would you know?” Gareth asked on reflex, sounding very much like his father. He could hear the condescension and hated himself for it, just a little. It made Roman stiffen, his expression shutter. Whatever sharpness Gareth had seen behind his eyes before disappeared, like a sheathed knife—hidden, but no less dangerous. “I guess I wouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Gareth said.

“No need to apologize, Mr. Ranulf,” Roman said stiffly. Changing the subject, he asked, “Was that your wife and daughter with you today?”

“Yes. Isobel and Ofelia. Isobel’s the most beautiful woman in the world, Mr. Hallisey. You should see her! You should come up and see her! Then you’ll know.”

“I saw her this morning, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” Gareth sighed. “She’s pregnant with our second child. I really don’t want to leave her, now of all times.”

“I’m sure it’s no great comfort, but it sounds like Unity has things in hand. And Orean is beautiful in the fall.”

“Have you been?” Gareth asked.

“Several times.”

“You should be on the team, then, instead of me. You’re much charminger than I, and you can fight, and you’ve been to Orean.”

“You think I’m charming? I’m flattered, Gareth, but you’re a married man.”

If it wouldn’t have given him a headache, Gareth might’ve rolled his eyes. “Would you go, if we could swap? Would you join the team? Hypo-hyperothetically.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

Roman half-laughed. He looked up at the sky, weighing his answer. “Because I don’t work with Unity, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want to work with me.”

“Why not?”

Roman turned his considering look on Gareth. “I would have leapt at this sort of opportunity, when I was young. I did, in fact. I won’t make the same mistake again. The fact is, I don’t trust Unity. I don’t trust them to treat Orean fairly, and I don’t trust their motives, so promise you’ll keep an eye on them for me.”

“I…promise.”

This pulled another smile out of Roman, softer than the others. “I really wish you the best, Gareth; you seem like a nice guy. Hold onto that and don’t let anyone take it from you.”

“You talk older than you look,” Gareth observed, the most cogent thought he could form at the moment.

“I’m fairly sure that doesn’t make sense.”

“It does.”

Roman smiled and shook his head. “If you insist. By the way, do you recognize where we are?”

Gareth looked around. Past the slight blur, he recognized the lights and sights of Kramer Street. “Oh!”

“Should I help you to your room, or can you handle it from here?”

“I can handle it. Thank you, Mr. Hallisey. I said I’d pay you—”

“Don’t worry about it, just promise you’ll be more careful next time you wander around at night. Good luck with your trip, Mr. Ranulf.”

With that, Roman was gone, strolling down the street and out of Gareth’s life. Gareth lingered outside his hotel a few minutes longer, letting the crisp air slowly peel back the medicine’s haze. He didn’t want to be so out of it when he explained what happened to Isobel, so he stood and watched the—few, given the late hour—people pass by on the street.

He recognized the trio of orinians that were staying across the hall from him as they also returned to the hotel. One of them, a girl with long blonde hair, met Gareth’s eye from across the street. Her smile fell—Gareth could only imagine how he must look—and she hurried after her friends.

“Kieran! Íde!” she called, catching up to them just as the hotel doors swung shut, blocking them from Gareth’s view. He watched the doors long after the orinians disappeared, Roman’s warning coming unbidden to his mind. I don’t trust Unity to treat the orinians fairly. It echoed the prince’s threats, the hints of ulterior motives. Gareth hoped they were both wrong.

They must be wrong.

Expect to see much more of Roman! What do you think of him so far?

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