Fractured Magic: Egil Interlude IV

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.

Present Day
Year of Unity 1880

Roman crossed an abandoned wharf, lost to his thoughts while the tide lapped at the quay. Moira Ranulf’s smug expression haunted him, as did the knowledge that his friend was in trouble—if he still had any right to call Leandros such. He kicked a rock, watched it land in the dark water with a rippling splash. In the stillness, even that seemed loud.

Did Leandros know what was coming for him? What he’d gotten himself into? Was there anything Roman could even do about it?

Noticing a tingling in his arms, he raised a hand to find it faintly aglow, the veins criss-crossing the back of it glowing the brilliant red-white of light passing through skin. It spread slowly up his veins, up his arms, and from experience, he knew what came next: his eyes would turn all black.

Roman clenched his hand into a fist. Of all the Egil stories he’d heard, he hated the ones about magic the most. They treated magic like a gift; in reality, it was a curse. He’d felt the magic watching him since he left Dinara, breathing down his neck and waiting for its chance to take over. As he’d done a dozen times since then, he pushed it back and waited for the glow to fade.

Maybe there was nothing he could do about Leandros, but there were things he could try. He stopped outside of a rickety old building, its shape and the faded sign above its doors suggesting it might have once been a pub or a restaurant. The sign read “The Broken Pisto,” an L at the end of the last word half-fallen, dangling on the backboard.

Broken was a fitting term for this place. Cracks ran along the dull façade, and the glass windows, which had been boarded from within, were full of shattered panes divided by rotting muntins. No lamplight drifted out from inside, and no streetlamps were around to light the place from without. It was only thanks to the full moon, hanging high above the water behind him, that Roman could read the sign at all.

When he tried the handle, the door opened easily and silently, without the creaking groan you’d expect from hinges left to rust. The inside, though, was exactly what you’d expect: the pub floor was coated in layers of dust, the tables and chairs covered with coarse cloth. Broken glass and furniture lay strewn about, but when he studied the floor, Roman saw a path through the debris toward a door at the back. When he listened, he heard something other than the lapping waves: distant music and distant voices.

The place was empty but for a burly nymph behind the bar, who eyed Roman as he shut the door behind himself. “We’re closed,” the man said, as if that wasn’t obvious from simply looking about.

“I’m an old regular,” Roman said.

For a moment, he thought he might be turned away, but then the man held a black object out. “Fine. Take this. You’d be stupid to go down without it.”

Roman crossed to the bar. The object turned out to be a mask, one that covered only the eyes and left the nose and mouth visible. “Thanks,” Roman said, sliding it on. He crossed to the back door he’d seen, which led to a step of stone stairs. Those stairs then led down to a darkened landing with a single, heavy door. Roman paused there to tug up his hood, further obscuring his identity, before pushing through.

The music and voices, which before had been muffled, burst free at the door’s opening. A soulful piano tune echoed up the stairwell, followed by a man’s laughter. Through the door was a world of crystal, leather, mahogany and velvet. Masked strangers filled the bar-lounge and cigar smoke drifted on the air, set aglow by the ornate amber oil lamps hanging above the low tables. At the bar, straight ahead, an impressive selection of liquor bottles were displayed along the wall.

Roman lingered in the doorway, taking it all in and making sure the white-haired bartender’s back was turned before he slipped into the dining room, which was separated from the bar by a half-wall. With his view of the bar blocked by a thick support column, Roman lowered his hood again.

Few in Gallonten knew about the Broken Pistol, the only place in the city the law—and Unity—couldn’t reach. That wasn’t to say the Broken Pistol itself was lawless; it had its own social mores, ones that its community strictly enforced. If you already belonged to that community, you would be welcome in the Broken Pistol. If you were invited by someone within it, you would be welcome in the Broken Pistol. Unless you were desperate, you did not invite yourself here; such a misstep could result in your body being found floating in the pier, robbed to its undergarments.

Over the decades, it had become a sanctuary for the elite of Gallonten’s underworld, and that meant it was full of powerful people who hated Unity almost as much as Roman did. While Roman moved between their tables, he collected dirty looks—they didn’t realize, yet, that he was one of them.

Roman dropped into the open seat across from a man in a vivid blue butterfly mask. All around, the masks were more ornate than Roman’s; his own marked him as an outsider, he knew. “Long time, no see,” he said, ignoring all the eyes turned his way.

Recognizing Roman’s accent, that distinct mix of Troasian and Gallontean, the man laughed. Two pairs of sharp canines glinted in the low light. “Graced with your presence twice in one week! Color me surprised, my friend; you usually drift away on the changing winds, here and gone in an instant. A pleasure to see you again, Aim.”

The eyes that had been watching turned away, appeased. Roman may be a stranger to them, but he knew Ivey. And Ivey, who had frequented the Broken Pistol since its grand opening, would make sure Roman understood its values: discretion and prudence. Roman found it more amusing, than anything—he’d attended the grand opening, too, right beside Ivey. It continually surprised him how much people could forget in sixty short years.

Roman waved over one of the servers that stood ready. While the young man that approached had an affable smile, he wore a pistol at one hip and a dagger at the other. Insurance, in case of disturbances. Roman returned his smile. “Just wine for me. Whatever you have open. Ivey, can I treat you?”

“I’ll have the same,” Ivey said, though he still had some left in his current glass. Secretly, Roman was relieved. A single meal from the Broken Pistol would have depleted his meager savings.

“I hope you didn’t come here for me,” Ivey said, swirling the wine in his glass. “If I were you, I’d much rather stay home with my beautiful girl than sit in a cold basement with an old man.”

“If you’re old, what does that make me?” Roman muttered. “I’m here to speak with Thane, actually.”

Ivey’s gaze cut sharply up toward Roman. “Have you seen him yet? He’s changed since you disappeared.”

“I can imagine. I saw his hair,” Roman said, glancing over his shoulder. That column still stood between himself and the bar, hiding the bartender from view. “I’m here on business. Also, she’s not my girl anymore. Not after yesterday.”

Ivey winced. “Terribly sorry, Aim.”

“But not, I think, surprised,” Roman said, watching Ivey shrug. “The orinians made it out okay?”

“Of course; I would have told you if they hadn’t. If all went well after our parting, they’ll be in Home by now. You’re still keeping a low profile, I hope?”

“More or less. I almost joined Unity’s mission to Orean,” he said, “But I had an interview with Magistrate Ranulf tonight and I think I blew it at the last moment. Too bad.”

Ivey stared at Roman for a long moment, then burst out laughing. It was infectious, and after a moment, even Roman had to laugh at the absurdity of it. “Only you—,” Ivey began, pausing to wipe his eyes, shamelessly lifting his mask to do so. Everyone knew Ivey’s face here, anyway. No one who wanted to see the Pistol again would lay a finger on him. “Only you could attack Unity one day and then interview with a Magistrate the next. It’s good to see you haven’t lost your magic, even after all this time.”

As if sensing it had been mentioned, Roman’s magic gave a twinge. It felt like a spiritual cramp, an ache in his heart. Ivey sat forward, expression turning serious. “I must ask, Aim: what are you doing here? You’ve been dead to the world for nearly a century only to return now, of all times. What in the heavens brought you back?”

The server reappeared with two glasses, then, and Roman was grateful for it. As soon as the wine was set down, he took a larger swig than the vintage warranted. “I’m not back,” he said, more bitterly than he’d intended. As far as anyone was concerned—as far as he was concerned—he was still dead. Histrios had damaged him in ways he couldn’t admit, even to an old friend. “I won’t be until Unity is destroyed.”

Ivey raised a single reddish-white eyebrow. “And that’s what you want?”

Yes, he wanted it. He wanted it desperately. He’d never wanted anything more, not in his very long life—not death, not companionship, not freedom. He wanted Unity gone. He wanted to travel without watching for Enforcers over his shoulder. He wanted to make new friends without keeping all that he was a secret. He wanted to love without putting those who love him in danger. He wanted to live again. Unable to voice any of that, though, he simply nodded.

Ivey didn’t seem surprised by this answer, either, but he tapped his fingers against the table thoughtfully. They were wrinkled, gnarled, while Roman’s were still soft and youthful. Sometimes he wished his hands looked like Ivey’s. “If I may: how will you accomplish it? It’s not as if you can simply kill the Magistrates. A Representative will just be promoted to take their place.”

“Then I’ll all kill the Representatives. The Enforcers, too,” Roman said, simply. “I’ll wipe out the Representatives’ entire bloodlines, if I must.”

“I thought you left Unity to escape that life. The Egil I knew was never a killer,” Ivey said sternly, watching Roman over the rim of his glass. The butterfly mask reminded Roman of Ivey’s house, his walls filled with dozens and dozens of trapped creatures, caught and killed and cataloged. It wasn’t as if Ivey killed all of the specimens himself, but a shiver still ran down Roman’s spine.

He sighed and drank more of his wine. It was an excellent merlot, the flavors layered and complex, and Roman distantly wondered how much it would cost him. “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions?”

“Governments only have power when people believe in them,” Ivey said, simply. “Martyrdom unites people; it does not alienate them. It seems to me the people already have too much blind trust in Unity, these days. What of this mess with Amos Nochdvor?”

Roman blinked. “What about it?”

“We all know that Unity is scheming,” Ivey said, gesturing around the Pistol. “Ms. Cairn and her family knew it, too. But the general populace does not. If Unity says they intend to rescue the king, then in the people’s minds, that is what Unity will do. Perhaps things would change if they saw the truth.”

“I see what you’re getting at.”

“It’s only the start, but it is a start. Who’s better poised to reveal Unity’s crimes than Egil?”

Roman shook his head. “No one will take my word for it, after Histrios. I’m a madman, remember? If I’d made it onto that team, I could’ve gathered evidence. Whatever they’re after in Orean, I could’ve stopped them.”

Thoughtfully, Ivey asked, “How’s your relationship with the young prince, these days?”

Seeing Roman’s grimace, he quickly said, “Never mind, then. I have faith you’ll find your evidence, one way or another. You’ve always been resourceful. But on the subject of your prince, I would be remiss not to ask…you’re aware of the bounty on him, yes?”

Roman stared dully at him. “Bounty?”

Ivey leaned in, and Roman matched the movement. “I heard the Wu sisters discussing it the other night,” the maranet said, inclining his head toward the two women playing cards at the next table. Roman knew them by name; they had a dozen grand burglaries accredited to them and a combined bounty of nearly two hundred triems on their heads. “There’s a twenty triem offer on him from the Golden Rose.”

“That’s not so much,” Roman said, though he wasn’t sure. “They want him dead?”

Ivey shrugged. “They want him gone.”

“I’m not familiar with the Golden Rose. Who are they?”

“A new anarchist group, very anti-Unity. Their name’s a reference to the Great War, to some scholars by the same name who protested Unity’s creation.”

Roman bit his lip. On any other day, he’d probably get along with them. “What do they have against Leandros?”

“What do you think?” Ivey asked, pointedly.

Roman sighed. Leandros led a Unity team, now. He worked for Unity. Roman wasn’t pleased about it himself, and he knew Leandros better than anyone.

“But that’s not all,” Ivey said. “There’s a second bounty, and this one does want him dead. I didn’t hear how much, but from context, I gather it’s outrageous. Ask Thane about it when you go up.”

“Is it from Unity?”

Ivey clicked his tongue. He didn’t seem surprised that Unity, too, would wish Leandros harm, even despite their purported partnership. “You know how Thane gets about his business; anonymity’s the word. I only know the other’s from the Golden Rose because they do their business here, out of the Pistol.”

Roman drained the last of his wine and pushed to his feet. “I’d better get this over with.”

“Best of luck,” Ivey said, toasting with his glass.

Roman reluctantly circled the room and found Than occupied with helping another patron. He settled at the opposite end of the bar to wait, idly wondering whether Thane would recognize him. His hair was shorter than when they’d last met, though he knew that even behind a mask, his eyes might give him away.

When Thane finally turned to him, his expression was cool. There was no glint of recognition, but Thane had always been unbeatable in poker.

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” Thane said as he approached, holding out a hand even more weathered than Ivey’s. Roman shook it but instantly regretted it when Thane wrenched his hand forward, turning it over to reveal the brand on his wrist. The old bartender bared his teeth, revealing sharp canines just like Ivey’s. “Your kind’s not welcome here.”

Thane's hair had faded, but his strength hadn't; Roman winced, then tried to smile in the way the bartender used to like. “And here I thought I was the exception.”

Thane released Roman’s hand as if he’d been burned, and Roman took a moment to rub his wrist. He expected the usual—that’s not possible, or you’re supposed to be dead. Instead, Thane surprised him by barking out a laugh and saying, “You. You have some nerve coming here. More than a few of my patrons would kill you themselves, if they knew you were alive.”

Roman rested his elbows on the counter and tried to look innocent. “You wouldn’t let any of them hurt me, Thane.”

“Where do you think you are? I’ll let anyone do anything to you in here, for the right price. Maybe I'll get in line myself.” Thane owned the Broken Pistol now, but before that, he’d been a mercenary. Even Roman would’ve shuddered to make an enemy of him, then. Probably still would.

“It’s good to see you,” Roman said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Thane said. “I knew you weren’t dead.”

“Well, it was a close thing.”

“No thanks to your pet alfar. I told you keeping him around would only cause trouble, and now he’s gone straight, I hear. At least you haven’t, if you’re still coming around here.”

“I could never,” Roman said, pressing a hand to his heart. “But I’m glad you brought him up. Your grandfather mentioned something about a bounty?”

Thane pulled a heavy leather book out from under the bar, retrieved a pair of spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, and flipped through yellowing pages, each filled margin to margin with his cramped writing. This book was part of the Broken Pistol’s draw: a meticulous ledger of open bounties and private jobs, available to anyone who knew to ask.

“There,” Thane said, pointing to a recent entry. “A twenty triem offer from—”

“The Golden Rose, yeah. I meant the other one.”

Thane made a disgruntled noise. “Guess I’m going to have to remind the old man about the Pistol’s gossiping policy.”

“How much is it?”

“Three hundred triems.”

Roman swore. He left Leandros alone for half a century and he’d somehow ended up with a three hundred triem bounty on his head? Who had he pissed off so badly? Money like that was enough to tempt anyone. He’d have to keep a closer eye on Leandros going forward. “Who placed it?”

“An anonymous guarantor,” Thane said, shutting the book.

“Won’t you tell an old friend?”

Thane repeated his familiar barking laugh. “Is that what we are?”

“I certainly thought so,” Roman said. They had been, once—sometimes more, when Roman’s visits to the Broken Pistol coincided with periods where they were both unattached. That was back when Thane’s hair was still red and Roman’s life had some meaning.

“I can’t believe you went white before Ivey. You’ve grown old,” Roman observed, reaching out to touch Thane’s hair. It stuck out in every direction, just like his grandfather’s. Roman knew there were eyes on them, weighing how familiarly Roman interacted with the Pistol’s frightening owner; he wouldn’t have risked touching an irritable Thane unless he had something to gain from it.

Thane batted his hand away, but there was no anger in the gesture. “That’s no way to get what you want,” he said. Then, he added, “You haven’t.”

“I never do.”

Thane gave Roman a hard look, then sighed and caved, first glancing around to see if anyone was within earshot. “I’ll tell you this: the bounty’s been around for as long as you’ve been dead. I don’t know what happened in Histrios an’ I don’t want to, but afterward, Unity went around telling everyone Nochdvor killed you to save the city. It really boosted his reputation, and the Alfheimr Council didn’t like that much.”

“Alfheimr?” Roman asked. Dread seeped into his veins and made them glow.

This didn’t surprise Roman. The truth was, Alfheimr’s Council had despised Leandros since his father’s failed coup, since he ran away with Egil and refused to be an easy pawn for them. But this meant that Leandros had made enemies of the Golden Rose, the Magistrates of Unity, and Alfheimr itself—not to mention whoever had kidnapped Amos, lying wait in Orean.

Leandros was clever, but with enemies like those, he was as good as dead.

“He’s been locked away in the palace for decades. There's no getting in that place uninvited, so no one bothered taking the bounty up,” Thane explained. “Since he came to Gallonten, though, all out in the open, there’s been interest. That’s all I’ll say, but if memory serves, Nochdvor’s capable of taking care of himself.”

Roman hated the word capable. Lots of people were capable until they made a mistake. He looked down at his hands, finally noticing how bright they’d grown. Normally, this was where he withdrew, pushed down the darkness inside him. For the first time, though, he decided to embrace it. He needed it, so he let it spread.

Thane hadn’t noticed, but it was only a matter of time. As evenly as he could, Roman asked, “Mind if I make an announcement?”

“Normally, I’d make you pay for that,” Thane said, as if Roman didn’t know the Broken Pistol’s biggest rule: if you caused a scene, you paid for it—literally. It worked as an effective deterrent, as Thane’s rates were high, and he had ways of collecting.

Roman grimaced. “I can’t afford it.”

"Whatever you say, you know it'll be everywhere by morning."

"I'm counting on it,” Roman said. The Pistol’s no gossiping rule only went so far, and everyone in this room was influential in Gallonten, in one way or another.

Again, Thane sighed. “For old times’ sake, then, I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Roman saw the exact moment Thane noticed his hands, the man’s expression shifting to alarm, but Roman was already turning away. Wordlessly, he stepped up to the half-wall separating the bar from the common room and climbed onto it. There, he waited until he had everyone’s attention. When the pianist in the corner faltered, everyone else followed, dozens of masked faces turning toward Roman. The silence felt familiar, after his time with the Webhon Players. He knew just how long to wait to make them squirm.

He’d been feeling too heroic, these last few days—Aleksir Bardon and Maebhe Cairn had drawn it out of him. But watching the patrons’ faces as he removed his mask, their annoyance and distrust turning quickly to horror, he remembered what he truly was. He knew what they were seeing: his face etched with glowing veins, making him look as though he wept ichor, and a pair of all-black eyes. He gave them a moment to look their fill.

The Wu Sisters dropped their cards. Ivey set down his drink. Thane stared, mouth hanging open, and then Egil asked: “Did you miss me?”

As with every time before, the shadows draped off him, pooled around him like a cape until he felt more shadow than man. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he’d let the transformation go far enough. It was time to stop. This thing inside him fed on his helplessness and fear, and he had too much of that inside him tonight. But he pushed those feelings away to focus on the scene before him.

Of course, no one answered him.

“I’m the one who attacked Unity Island yesterday,” he said, holding his hands up and spreading them wide, letting everyone see how they glowed. “I’d like you all to send them a message from me: tell them I’m coming for them. Tell the world that Egil has returned.”

Roman turned to jump down, then thought better of it. On a whim, he added, “And for anyone seeking the bounty on Prince Nochdvor’s head, know that you’ll have to go through me to get it.”

After that, Roman left without so much as looking Thane or Ivey’s ways again. He was too unsettled by the magic, too unmoored. By tomorrow, all of Gallonten would know Egil was here, Egil was behind the attack on Unity Island. Grimly, Roman smiled to himself. They’d have trouble blaming Leandros for it, now.

Out in the fresh air, Roman stumbled down the dock, his limbs feeling too heavy and too light all at once. He wasn’t sure where he ended and the shadows began; they flocked to him, crowded around him, and he knew if he wasn’t careful, they would smother him. If he wasn’t careful, he could lose himself in them forever.

He’d never let the transformation go this far. For a moment, he feared he couldn’t pull himself back. But as his pulse slowed and he remembered how to breathe, the glow faded from his veins. Finally, the suffocating fear that this time would be it, that he’d traded his humanity away to this darkness for good, lifted from his chest and allowed him to sensation again.

No one was around to see Roman stand on the docks and take great, heaving breaths as he fought the darkness inside of him.

No one was around to see Roman fall to his knees and heave into the murky water, half as much blood coming up as bile.

No one was around to see Egil wrap his arms around himself, holding himself together as best as he could while he shook and shivered and waited for the shadows to bleed out of him.

Self-care is Roman's middle name. 👍 (Also, hey! It's the scene from the header image! Finally!)

If you’d like to support the story, the best thing you can do is share it with others. You can also support the author with a one-time tip, or get perks in one of two membership tiers:

$2/month - Receive a behind-the-scenes newsletter that includes character art, exclusive content and updates, writing advice, and more.
$5/month - In addition to the above newsletter, receive chapters one week early.