Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2) Read online

  And I take it du'Nograh eulogized the dead of the enemy as well as his own?

  No. The leader of the Cause was killed, and neither his brother nor his wife were in attendance. The emerald gave the eulogy.

  Dead?!? How? That wasn't supposed to happen...

  I'm sorry, Master. If you had sent us ahead sooner...

  It's not your fault, my dear. I'm just... surprised.

  But though his voice sounded surprised, Athnae sensed far more than mere surprise. The Master's voice felt saddened, even grief-stricken. Such an odd thing for the Master to feel for a man he'd never met. Granted, she couldn't truly feel his emotions through his sapphire artifact the way she could a sapphire mage or another dragon, but she knew the Master well enough to know when to trust his voice and when to look beyond it to his nature.

  Take word to your mate, he continued after a moment. Tell him that I'll be a bit longer in joining you. Our granite general had a surprise of his own -- he brought someone with him. That shouldn't have happened either, and I must uncover what it means.

  Yes, Master. She sighed, a stream of bubbles curling up from her bescaled lips, drawn tight in frustration. Just know that autumn is rapidly coming to an end. Goldenleaf is half done, and the waters here taste as if winter will be a painful one for Aplos. You know how fire wyrms hate the cold.

  I do, but I'm afraid it cannot be avoided, my dear. You have my word, though, that as soon as I am able to leave Nestor and Jaeda alone here, I will make my way to you with all haste.

  I understand. Be well, Master, Athnae said, mentally nodding to him out of habit, even knowing that he would not sense it. Cao Tzu gave his parting benediction and broke the connection. Even though his artifact could not transmit his feelings, Athnae could hear in his voice the affection that he had for her, that he had for all of her kind. She trusted that he had everything well in hand. She was frustrated with him, certainly, but she trusted him.

  Hooking to the left, she gave her tail a mighty twitch, and launched herself skyward. She breached the waves -- far more majestically than any whale, she noted with pride -- and then spread her azure wings, catching a thermal coming off the water and edging her into the heavens. She pumped her wings a few times to give herself a little more altitude, then banked toward Bastion, glowing dimly in the early morning twilight. As she neared the shoreline, a familiar presence tickled her mind.

  Back so soon? came a smoky voice that burned brilliantly in her thoughts... and even more so in her heart.

  Couldn't be helped, love. The Master spoke to me, and --

  He's not ready yet, is he? he finished for her, the flavor of his frustration matching her own. He does know that I'm a fire wyrm, right? That I don't like the cold?

  Athnae hurt for him, but did her best to color her thoughts with cheer. Oh, come now, Aplos. Winter is still weeks away. Besides, who but the Sire of Lycahtris is worthy to aid the Prism in his early hours? And who but his lovely, brilliant sapphire mate is worthy to keep his spirits lifted?

  She felt him chuckle. Well, I must admit that you do that marvelously, my jewel.

  Of course, I do, she said as she pulled up at the base of the mountain where they had made their nest with the other dragons, near enough to give the Prism the promise of their support, but far enough away to give him his space. They were only soldiers in the Prism's war. It was only right for him to come to them in his own time.

  She sighed as she touched down next to her mate. Stay the course a bit longer, love, she sent, nudging Aplos with her snout. The granites will soon be set on the path to fulfilling their destinies -- whatever they may be -- and the Prism will be on his way to fulfilling his, and we'll be back in the lava tubes of Dragonspire by New Year.

  Aplos harrumphed, a curl of smoke escaping his nostrils. I'll believe that when I see it. The Master is many things. Reliable isn't one of them. Wait, "granites"? The Master was only expecting one, wasn't he?

  Athnae chuckled. Took you a minute to chase that rabbit down, didn't it?

  * * *

  Nestor leaned heavily upon the balcony railing, staring up into the pure white of the midnight sky, its coloration the exact inverse of what it should've been. The black moon had long since dipped below the horizon, fleeing its eternal foe -- an enemy so diaphanous that it was entirely hidden from the granite's view, so long as his magics were bound by the shackle that he wore about his neck. Bitterly, he fingered the amethyst encrusted metal, twisting it on his neck for the hundredth time, vainly feeling for a flaw in the device. There was none.

  He scanned the countryside surrounding the Tower of Aeden, looking for anything that might pique his interest. It was still early in the morning -- he could tell by the coolness in the air -- but the vast clearing that was the Garden teemed with life nevertheless. Tiny specks of orange and yellow dashed back and forth, some hunting, some being hunted, all believing themselves to be hidden by darkness. All revealed in Nestor's sight.

  He once fancied himself a hunter of sorts, sniffing out and collecting for the Highest those who opposed his rule. He'd gotten very good at his job. Very good indeed. He had become the most feared granite -- Crafter take it, the most feared mage -- in all of the Rank, second only to the Highest himself. The entire might of the Highest's armies had been given into his hand, to wield for the glory and honor of the Vicar of the Crafter.

  Look at me now, he scoffed silently, fingering his shackle once more. From master to prisoner. From trusted servant to betrayer. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  He and Jaeda had arrived hours ago. Cao Tzu, their enigmatic host, granted them both spacious accommodations -- he would consider them lavish, if they weren't the only three souls here. Dragons not included, of course. The rooms, like all of Aeden that he'd seen thus far, were practically littered with ancient miscellany, odds and ends made of inconceivable materials for equally inconceivable purposes. Nestor felt so utterly lost in this strange place, bereft of his magic, that he dared not sleep.

  He'd never admit as much to Jaeda, but he was terrified.

  It wasn't so much that he was defenseless. Really, he wasn't. Granites trained with various weapon platforms so that they could remain effective even under such circumstances. Had his granite contingent had but a moment more warning, they would not have fallen to the rebel ambush. Mere seconds into the assault, the Granite Guard had adjusted to the amethyst field that had encompassed them, left them without their magics, but by then it was already too late. The rebel leader du'Nograh had got the better of them.

  Them. The Granite Guard. The strong right arm of the Vicar of the Crafter. If they didn't have the Crafter's blessing, who did?

  He shouldn't be surprised, he thought to himself. He'd seen signs for weeks that the Highest wasn't the man -- the demigod -- that the world took him to be. Flaws. Miscalculations. Failure. Nestor was sure he'd seen these things before, but in all his hundred and seventeen years of serving the Highest, he'd never noticed those failings before the arrival of the man that the Highest had called the Oddity.

  Nestor's exposure to the young man -- a soldier from "elsewhere", with grievous wounds that he should not have survived -- had been limited, but it was enough to see how out of sorts the Oddity's presence had made the Highest. How could a nearly dead man threaten the very Vicar of the Crafter? How could the Vicar... fear such a man?

  And that's really what it was. Fear. Since the coming of the Oddity, Nestor had noticed a stark change in the Highest -- well, stark for a man who never changed, anyway. Fear was the only explanation. And however slight that fear might've been, it was utterly devastating to Nestor, who had known him for so long.

  For if the Vicar of the Crafter could fear any man... could he truly be the Vicar of the Crafter? Nestor thought not. So confident was he in this that he had staked his career, his very life, on it.

  But... now what? Having loosed himself from the Highest, from the only life Nestor had ever known, what did he have left? What purpose? He looked deep into the w
hite of the empty sky, as if the answer, like the sun, could be hidden there in plain sight.

  * * *

  Mik gazed deep into the star-speckled sky, silently scoffing at those who looked to them for answers, as if they could be hidden there in plain sight.

  In the One who had cast the stars into that sky, perhaps, he thought, leaning against the wagon as he stretched the night out of his old bones, but certainly not in the sky itself.

  It was a clear night tonight, and the sky was alive with light. The moon was almost gone, peering out from the crack between Schel Veylin's highest parapets, but its rays still cut like a blade through the surrounding darkness, all but drowning out the meager torchlight of the city, still a league or so to the west.

  He had scouted the highroad before easing the wagon from the field where he'd camped, head twisting back and forth, east and west, until he was absolutely sure that the road was empty. Satisfied -- as satisfied as he could be in the dark, at any rate -- he tugged the reins, drawing Matilde into the road behind him. This last stretch was always the worst, close enough to make a body feel he was almost safe, but far enough to guarantee that he wasn't. It was a favorite spot for outlaws to lie in wait, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting trader seeking only to ply his wares to the Valenese.

  Of course, Mik was neither unsuspecting, nor a trader. He was just a kindly, unassuming old man, nobody worth rob---

  A shower of pebbles bounced toward him from a clumsily scuffed boot. With the practiced ease of untold ages, he dropped the reins, scooped up his shortbow from where it hung in a sling about his neck, drew an arrow from the quiver at his hip, nocked, turned, identified, assessed, aimed, and fired, all in the space between one breath and the next.

  The bandit gurgled around the arrow and fell face first into the gravel. The two that were with him leapt from the brush, hands high in the air, begging for their lives.

  Mik quirked a grin that he really didn't feel. "I'm too old t'play games with ye, lads," he warned.

  "We wa'n't meanin' no harm, Elder," stuttered one of them, the supposed ring leader. "We saw yer fire a while ago and just wa---"

  Mik nocked and let fly again, this time to the far side of the road to a target that he caught out of the corner of his eye. His missile struck meat again -- this time a woman, and a rough looking one at that. She fell over, screaming in pain as she gripped the feathered flower that had sprouted from the sweet spot between her leather spaulders, gorget, and breastplate.

  "Ye'll live," Mik remarked, then ratcheted his voice up a notch. "The rest o' ye won't, less'n ye come out now."

  With that, two other brigands made their way out into the open. One of them wore scale armor, and took great pains to keep the wagon between himself and Mik. Their real leader, no doubt. He stood silent, keeping his eyes on Mik but his mouth shut. Wise move.

  "I got no truck wi' ni'zedra, but I've no fear o' ye either." If the bandits were insulted by him naming them "honorless" -- if they even knew what the term meant -- they didn't show it. They simply watched him warily, hanging on his every word.

  "I lef' a purse at me campsite," he continued. "Rent fer the farmer what owns th' field. But there's brigands on the roads these days, so I'm sure ye understand me trepidation o' leavin' it there unwatched. More lucky me that a band o' stalwarts such as yerselves come along willin' t'keep an eye on it fer me. I believe in payin' me debts, an' it's much easier t'do when yer purse ain' gittin' stole."

  As he spoke, he gradually poured more and more silent menace into his voice. He paused for effect, looking each thug pointedly in the eye. Probably overkill at this point, but it couldn't hurt.

  "I've marked yer faces, lads. And lass," Mik said, graciously including the fairer outlaw. "If'n ye touch the purse, I'll know. If'n ye so much as look at it sideways, I'll know that too."

  Mik turned to leave, but thought better of it. "I'm not wi'out a heart, though. I know times is hard, else good folk like yerselves wouldna turn t'such disreputable ways. If'n me man comes'n checks on the farmer'n finds ye've kep' a good eye on me stuff, there'll be a couple gold a piece in it for ye."

  "And if we don't?" asked the man in scale mail.

  Mik's grin widened. This time, he meant it. "I'll know."

  He didn't wait for the brigand to reply. He didn't have to. Dropping his bow back to its sling, he hauled himself into the spring seat of his wagon. Settling himself, he snapped the reins and clicked his tongue. Matilde lurched forward, happy to be off. Mik affected a slight hunch to his shoulders as he rode, leaning elbow to knee. Just a kindly, unassuming old man, nobody worth robbing.

  Chapter 2

  The sun, still well below the rim of the world, had just begun to kiss the very summit of Mount Ysre when Sal and Marissa found their way to Reit's tent. There had been no discussion the night before about where or when they would meet to discuss next steps, but if there were to be any moving forward for the Cause, it seemed reasonable that the first step would be made right here. He wasn't the least bit surprised to find others there waiting on them, apparently of the same mind.

  el'Yatza was dead. Long live el'Yatza.

  Many of the Heads of Order and Guild were absent. Whatever was ultimately decided, they would be moving out soon, and some guilds took longer to prepare for a move than others. But Reit's inner circle was present, anyway. Delana was seated at the far side of the firepit as they approached. She was nearest the tent flap, and leaning heavily on Jaren. Retzu knelt on her other side in shol'zo rah -- legs forming a loose tripod, hands on thighs, back straight, at rest but at the ready. Senosh and Menkal sat opposite one another in their accustomed places, and a small cadre of runners stood close at hand, ready to dispense orders as they came. As active and crowded as Caravan was in the ruined fortress, people still cut the conclave of leaders a wide berth, easily opening a path for Sal and Marissa to fill the empty spots, completing the circle.

  An awkward silence grew between them, offering a conspicuous counterpoint to the bustle that was going on all around them as the camp made their preparations. This is where Reit would usually speak up.

  "So, we got dragons," Sal said lamely. "Didn't see that coming."

  Jaren offered a halfhearted chuckle. "I suppose we should talk about that, but I think we have more urgent matters to tend to first, such as where we go from here... and who gives the word to head out." This last, he directed pointedly first at Delana, then at Retzu. The grieving amethyst said nothing, but joined Jaren in lifting her eyes to her brother-in-law

  The assassin's face was perfectly neutral, giving up no grief, no anger, nothing. He could've been made of stone for all the emotion he betrayed. And when he spoke, his voice was just as cold. "You know better than to ask me, Fiol. I'm no leader."

  "I know how you hate to be pinned down, but you're the logical choice," Jaren urged. "You've been with Reit from the beginning."

  "So has Delana," Retzu retorted. "She speaks with his authority. She's his wife, the Lady of House Nograh."

  "And you're now its heir."

  "Sticks..." Delana started.

  "No, Sister. This was always Reit's war, Reit's army. I was here because I loved him. I'm still here because I love you all. But I'll not have the deaths of thousands on my conscience. People die by my blade, Sister, not by my command."

  "Guys, knock it off," Sal said, cutting off Delana's and Jaren's protests. "We're not going to settle this today. Reit's death is too new, too raw. Nobody's had time to process it -- not those who followed him, and certainly not those who were closest. Let's just get through today, and we'll worry about tomorrow... tomorrow."

  Jaren warred with himself visibly for a moment, but finally sighed and nodded at Sal. "First things first, then," he said.

  "Right," Sal said, relieved. "So, we got dragons."

  Jaren rolled his gemstone eyes and smiled again, this time more genuinely. "Yes, they did arrive rather conveniently. It begs the question, how? How did they know we'd need them? How did they kno
w to come to our aid at just the right time? And more importantly, why come to our aid?"

  "I can talk to them," Senosh offered. "Their leader is a red dragon. I'm a ruby. Maybe there's a kinship there that I can exploit."

  "'Exploit'?," scoffed Menkal. "No offense, Red, but if you go trying to 'exploit' a dragon, you'll find yourself on the wrong end of his gullet."

  Jaren shrugged his reluctant affirmation. "I do think the situation calls for a bit more... tact. You'd be of better use to us here, I think, maintaining security for the Cause as you've always done."

  "I'll go," Menkal said. "I'm old and grizzled and probably not very appetizing."

  "Least likely to be eaten -- as good a qualification as any," said Sal. "Also, it helps that you're a sapphire. I've seen Aplos and the blue one together. I'm guessing she's his mate? Anyway, they'll look at each other without saying a word, but they're body language tells me that they're communicating somehow -- probably magic."

  "Whispering to the wind," Menkal drawled, stroking his white beard slowly, considering the implications. "Both of them, you say?"

  "Yeah, both of them," affirmed Sal.

  "Well, that's definitely interesting." The mage's brows furrowed as he thought through this new revelation. "When a sapphire Whispers, the magic carries his thoughts out from him and seeks out the person he's Whispering to. So a link to Sapphire isn't necessary to hear the Whisper, but it is if the hearer wants to Whisper back."

  "You guys can't read minds?"

  "In legends, of course," Menkal said with a half shrug. "I suppose it's possible, but I've never met anybody who's done it, and I'm almost as long in the gem as I am in the tooth."

  "Well, we'll chase that one down another day," Sal dismissed. "Okay, so we've got our Dragon Whisperer. What do you guys think we should do about Bastion?"

  "Well, it's pretty much a conquered city at this point, isn't it?" asked Jaren. "I mean, we came for the Archives, but now we have a whole city."