Fractured Magic: Chapter Ten

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.

Roman Hallisey needed to stop caring so much. He’d wasted most of his morning worrying over his new acquaintance, which was absurd. The brother of a Unity Magistrate, who had everything he wanted and could easily get anything else, needed neither Roman’s pity nor his concern. But sympathy was rarely rational, and Roman’s thoughts kept drifting Gareth’s way despite his best efforts.

Did he regret saving the man? No. Was he happy about doing something good for Unity? Absolutely not. Now that he knew Gareth’s surname, would he save Gareth again, if given the chance? Roman shifted uncomfortably at the thought, at the inevitable answer: of course he would. Even after all Unity had done to him, after all the ways it had harmed him, he still would.

He jumped when a pair of fingers snapped in front of his face.

“Oy! Are you listening to me?”

Roman sat back. The fingers belonged to Cahrn, a large man with a dark beard and the leader of the theatrical troupe Roman had been traveling with. The man bothered Roman, but he was at least fun to bother back, a fact Roman took frequent advantage of.

A cloud of gloom followed Cahrn through his life, only ever dispersing when the man stepped onto the stage. Roman could never forget his rendition of Burgess in Only for the Roses, a notoriously saccharine role in a notoriously tender tragedy. The Act III soliloquy, with all the raw vulnerability Cahrn had poured into it, had Roman bawling in the back row like a child. Hiding his irritation now, he smiled, batted his eyelashes, and said, “Sorry, Cahrn. I was distracted by how dashing you look in that costume.”

Cahrn scowled and crossed his arms, though he dropped them again when the troupe’s costumer, who was re-pinning his cloak hem, tsked disapprovingly. “This concerns your girl, so don’t start with me,” Cahrn said. “I passed her on my way here. She’s practicing again.”

“Is that a problem?” Roman asked.

“Of course it’s a problem. The show is tonight. If she keeps pushing herself this late, she’ll only tire out. Get it?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Roman said, rolling his eyes. “If you need target practice the day of a battle, it’s already too late for you. I don’t have to be an actor to understand that much.”

“Been in many battles, then?”

Roman snorted. The Webhon Players had all placed bets on what he’d been doing before he started traveling with them, he knew. While highwayman and alchemist were his favorite guesses, Cahrn’s money was on soldier—and quite a lot of money it was, too. Roman had been toying with Cahrn for weeks, referencing imaginary battles and casually dropping army parlance, then walking it back if Cahrn commented on it. Somehow, the man still hadn’t realized Roman was only teasing him. “It’s just a metaphor, Cahrn.”

Cahrn let out a breath through his nose. “Go make Dinara rest.”

“I’ll do my best, but you know how hard she is to reason with when she’s set on something.”

“Then distract her. You’re better at improvisation than half my trained actors; I’m sure you can manage. It’s only for a few hours.”

“Are you saying I could be an actor?” Roman asked, pressing a hand to his heart. “I knew you’d ask me to join the Players if I stuck around long enough! I’m flattered, really, but I can’t afford to be tied down at the mo—”

“Just go,” Cahrn growled. “And make sure she’s at the theater by five for hair and makeup.”

Roman laughed and ducked out of the tent before Cahrn could scold him more. The walk to Dinara from here wasn’t far, just through the Players’ camp to the empty festival grounds. On the way, he passed Julian, the Players’ fiddler, pianist, and musician of many instruments tapping at a light drum from Troas. Julian’s wife nestled on the ground beside him, asleep with her back resting against his side. Further down the path, a group of Dinara’s friends played footbag. Before they could spot him, Roman ducked down an alley, following a shortcut, and hopped the fence into the empty Festival Grounds. It was always strange, seeing this place when the festival was closed: the empty stages and covered booths, the open path and total quiet. Still, it meant a straight shot to the Webhon Players’ stage.

He arrived there just in time to see Dinara fall.

She stood alone on the platform, dancing for the empty stands while her mentor Tabia watched. Dinara twirled, then jumped, soaring for a beautiful moment before she rolled her ankle upon landing and hit the ground hard. Roman broke into a run, but before he’d even reached the back row of seats, Dinara was pushing to her feet again, limping only a few paces before shaking it off.

Tabia stepped forward as well, but Dinara waved her off. “I’m all right,” Roman heard her say. She rolled her ankle experimentally.

Fortunately, Tabia climbed up onto the stage anyway, kneeling and taking Dinara’s ankle carefully in her hands. Dinara held Tabia's shoulder for balance and looked past her to the empty benches, her dark eyes meeting Roman’s as he came down the center aisle. She was beautiful—even injured, even wearing raggedy practice clothes and covered in a sheen of sweat. She grimaced, embarrassed, and gave Roman a small wave. Roman smiled and waved back.

“It’s fine, Tabia, really,” Dinara said, sweeping her dark curls out of her face. Roman wondered how long they’d been out there, that Dinara was making mistakes like this. How long she’d been pushing herself in the pursuit of perfection.

“You’re nervous,” Tabia accused, her back still to Roman. “It’s making you sloppy.”

“I’m tired,” Dinara corrected while Roman settled on a bench in the third row. At what was presumably a stern look from Tabia, she laughed, loud and frantic. “Fine, of course I’m nervous! I’m performing for Unity tonight, Tabia! What else can I be?”

“Confident,” Tabia said, simply. “Don’t think about them. Think about the story, about Edith. Would it help to hear about her again?”

Eyes wide, Dinara nodded and backed away as Tabia took the stage for herself. The older woman paused to tie her long braids behind her with a scrap of cloth, and when she finally turned toward the empty benches, she frowned upon seeing Roman there. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Is it true you’ve met Edith, Tabia?” Roman asked in lieu of an apology. It was a common rumor among the Players, but he’d never heard it confirmed.

Tabia ignored him, instead stepping into the dance Dinara had just fumbled. When she jumped, she landed smoothly. Roman noticed Dinara flinch, noticed her drop her gaze to the ground. She’d been struggling with the role since Cahrn cast her: not because of her own skill, but because of Tabia. Edith, the spirited heroine of Cenhelm, was Tabia’s legacy. From the way the Players told it, always in whispers and never when Tabia or Dinara were around, she was the one who popularized the role, who gave Cenhelm the acclaim it had amassed. Not only had she performed it for Unity, she’d performed it for kings and queens. She’d performed it for Edith herself. It was her role, not Dinara’s.

But mortality was a tragedy, and Tabia was getting too old to play the young ingenue. If they’d been performing for a small village off the beaten path, things would be different. Cahrn would have excused little inaccuracies. For Unity, everything had to be perfect.

“You have her heart,” Tabia said, moving through the variation with ease. As she slipped deeper and deeper into character, her usual jaunty sway faded away. “But your fear is holding you back, Dinara. Edith’s story is about trusting your heart and doing whatever you must to follow it, even when that’s difficult.”

Dinara nodded, looking miserable.

“Had Edith let fear rule her, she wouldn’t have discovered the assassination plot. Ellaes wouldn’t have given her the power to stop it. She wouldn’t have saved Unity and, subsequently, the world.” Tabia finished the dance and dipped into a bow, a smile on her generous lips. Finally, she met Roman’s eye. “I have met her. Just once.”

Roman moved up a row so he could hear better. “Must’ve been a while ago.”

“Are you calling me old, boy?” Tabia asked. Roman opened his mouth to backtrack, maybe even to flirt and soften her up, but Tabia shook her head. “You wouldn’t be wrong. My grandmother was a maranet; I’m even older than I look.”

Dinara shot Roman a warning look. “You don’t look old at all,” she said.

“Sweet of you, pet, but I know it’s not true.”

“Did Edith talk at all about Ellaes?” Roman asked, taking advantage of Tabia’s good mood while he could.

Tabia shook her head. “She called that part of the story a ‘narrative embellishment.’ Either it was just made up, or she had to deal with people’s doubt for so long that she no longer believes it herself. But enough of this,” Tabia said, holding her hands out to Dinara. Reluctantly, Dinara took them. “More practice will not do you any favors, my pet. Rest and remember: stories mean the most when you, the one doing the telling, are moved by them as well. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Just go where Edith leads you.”

Dinara nodded, a determined new gleam in her eyes. “I will. Thank you for agreeing to help me today. I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time.”

“Nonsense. That’s not something you ever need to apologize for.”

While Dinara came down the steps toward Roman, he stood and gave her a lazy salute. “I’m glad you’re done, because Cahrn sent me here to stop you—something about needing a break? You know the meaning of that word, don’t you, Di?”

“Har har,” Dinara said. When she held out a hand, Roman took it without hesitation. “What were you doing with Cahrn? Did you two become best friends while I wasn’t looking?”

“Mm. We gossiped while I helped him braid his beard.”

Dinara gasped. “Poor Cahrn! You never get the tension right.”

“That shows what you know. He appreciated my skills.”

Dinara laughed, then patted Roman’s hand. “Let’s go home, Roman. I’m tired.”

When she turned to leave, though, Roman on her hand to stop her. “I’m not letting you walk back on that foot. Come here,” he said, crouching so she could hop on his back. She laughed as she did, looping her arms around his neck. “Steady?” he asked. Dinara’s curls brushed his cheek as she nodded.

“Cahrn was scolding me for not stopping you from practicing more, actually,” Roman finally explained, heading back to camp. He cleared his throat. “And...for sneaking into camp late again.”

“You’d think he’d be used to that by now,” Dinara said dryly.

“Exactly!”

“How late was it this time?”

“’Early’ would be a better word, I think. It was around four,” Roman admitted.

“In the morning?” Dinara asked, going shrill in Roman’s ear. He winced, veering on the path, and Dinara quickly added, “Sorry! I just—how do you even do that? If I stayed up that late then also got up as early as you do, I’d collapse. I need eight hours, minimum, or I’m grumpy all the next day.”

“Believe me, I know,” Roman muttered, laughing again when Dinara pinched him. “What were you thinking on stage? You made some interesting expressions.”

“The usual. It’s not that I don’t want the role. I really do, I just feel so guilty. Tabia didn’t even do anything wrong. She just got older.”

“When you’ve lived past a certain age, Di, sometimes you don't mind yielding the stage.”

“And I suppose you’d know, being so old yourself,” Dinara teased.

“Ah. Maybe I wouldn’t,” he said. There must’ve been something strange in his tone because Dinara peered around his shoulder to try to see his expression. He forced a smile and a shrug. “I think Tabia is just happy for you.”

“Maybe,” Dinara conceded, “But I still feel bad.”

“If Tabia doesn’t, you shouldn’t. But we’re here, my lady. Shall I set you down or walk you to the door?”

Dinara wiggled to get down. “Here’s fine, thank you,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to the back of his neck before jumping down. The paint of her rickety trailer was chipped and cracked and you got splinters if you so much as rested your palm on the handrail, but it had carried Dinara thousands of miles. Her parents had built this trailer themselves after their marriage, and it had been with Dinara since. In that time, it had seen all of Calaidia.

Dinara turned to Roman as soon as they were inside. Standing at barely over five feet, she had to crane her neck to meet his eye. “You’re going to stay for the whole show tonight, aren’t you?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Roman asked. When he tried to step closer, she held him at arm’s length.

“Don’t give me that; I know you’ve been leaving early. And the times you do stay, you look like you’ve eaten something sour the whole time. Do you really hate it that much?”

Roman winced. “It has nothing to do with you, I promise. Like I told you when Cahrn first picked the festival lineup, I just don’t like that story. Tonight’s show is different,” he said, taking Dinara’s wrist and slowly reeling her in. This time, Dinara let him.

“Are you sure it’s not about Cahrn? You always leave right when he comes on.”

“It’s not Cahrn. It’s the character he’s playing,” Roman said reluctantly.

Dinara frowned. “Egil?” she asked. It became her turn to hold on when Roman stiffened and tried to wriggle away. It was a common dance of theirs, a push-pull. “Who doesn’t like Egil stories?”

Roman shrugged, his smile not meeting his eyes. “Me, I guess.”

“But why?”

“It doesn't matter. And the prince—”

“What’s wrong with Niko?”

“Not Niko, the character Niko’s playing,” Roman said. “I don’t like him. I don’t like either of them, and if I have to watch that play one more time, I really will go mad.”

Dinara waited for more explanation, but when she realized it wasn’t coming, she rolled her eyes. “You sound like a kid throwing a tantrum, Roman,” she said. She threw her hands up, frustrated. “But fine, I’ll leave it. Now, ask how my rehearsal went.”

Roman blinked. “What?”

“Every day, we follow the same routine. We fight, make up, and then you ask how my rehearsal went.”

“But I saw your rehearsal this time,” Roman pointed out.

“Only the end of it. A humiliating end, by the way.”

Roman backed toward their bed—little more than a mattress on the ground—and sat. “I wasn’t aware we had a routine,” he said, patting the spot next to him. When she approached, he surprised her at the last second by pulling her down onto his lap, instead. With a wolfish grin, he asked, “Is this part of our routine?”

Surprising him back, Dinara hiked up her skirts and straddled his hips. “Sort of. It usually comes later.”

Roman gave her a coy look, up through his eyelashes in the way he knew she was weak to. “And this?”

“Wha—Ah!” Dinara squealed, laughter forced out of her when Roman’s fingers found the ticklish spot below her ribs. She tried to bat his hands away, but he didn’t let her. “Roman!”

Roman’s own laughter stopped when Dinara launched her own attack, going for where he was the most ticklish: the back of his neck. He yelped and almost threw her off, and for a minute, they wrestled, Roman trying to get at Dinara and Dinara doing the same, both of them laughing until they couldn’t breathe. Finally, Dinara ended the battle by pushing Roman back onto the bed and following him down. “Truce?” she asked, sitting up on her elbows so she could look down at him. This close, he could count the freckles on her warm, dark skin.

“Fine. Truce,” he breathed.

“You’re an ass!” Dinara said. “You know how ticklish I am.”

“And it never gets old,” Roman replied with a bright grin, watching her expression soften in reply. He reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear, then finally asked, “How was your rehearsal?”

It startled a laugh out of Dinara. “You cheeky thing,” she said, turning her head to kiss his hand. “You know I don’t like fighting with you, Roman.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

Another kiss. “What did you do today, besides braid Cahrn’s beard?”

Roman snorted. “Not much,” he said, thinking again, briefly, of Gareth. “Explored north of Main Street, saved a man from being robbed, met some interesting people. Stopped in a hospital and heard some very interesting gossip. World-changing gossip, in fact. Have you seen the papers?”

“I—what? No, not yet,” Dinara said, as if she ever might. She didn’t read the papers as a rule, which was another thing they bickered over. Dinara said she didn’t know what to do with the heartache the news gave her, as if ignoring problems kept them from existing, while Roman felt it was his duty to bear witness, even when—especially when—there was nothing he could do. “What was that about a hospital?”

“The King of Alfheimr is missing. They think Orean is trying to start a war.”

Dinara’s eyes widened. “What?! Why would Orean do that?”

“Who knows,” Roman said. “Who can say if it’s even true, or if Unity made it up. But speaking of Unity, have you seen their theater yet?”

Dinara blinked a few times at the subject change, then readjusted, used to this dizzying speed from Roman. “I got a private tour of the place yesterday, before our last rehearsal. Wait until you see it, Roman, it’s beautiful! You are coming, aren’t you? Egil’s not in this one.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Roman promised.

Dinara smiled down at him, dark eyes glimmering. While they were as dark as Roman’s own, nearly black, hers held nothing but warmth. In contrast, Roman’s were cold, unsettling, creepy. He’d been told it again and again: from his father, from his friends, from his mentors and enemies and acquaintances. Even Dinara, his own partner, sometimes flinched when his eyes met hers.

It happened even now. He held her gaze a beat too long and she quickly dropped her own, suddenly eager to look anywhere but at him. “Don’t make faces at us this time. Cahrn was so mad about that,” she tried to tease, but Roman was already withdrawing. It was an old instinct, so long engrained he couldn’t stop it even if he’d wanted to.

It had been happening more with increasing frequency since they’d arrived in Gallonten. He knew it wasn’t fair to Dinara. He knew she deserved him. When she kissed him, hoping to lure him back out, he shifted beneath her to slide her off.

Dinara changed tactics. She broke the kiss, twined her fingers with Roman’s, and pinned his hands on either side of his head. That worked better: his eyes widened, his attention shifted back to her. Even under the full weight of his gaze, this time, she didn’t flinch away. “It’ll be nice to have you there,” she said, as if they were still discussing the show.

Roman blinked lazily, trying to think past Dinara’s hands, warmth, and weight to process the words. Dinara didn’t give him the chance. She kissed him again, and when she started trailing those kisses down his jaw, he tilted his head to give her better access.

“I make no promises about the faces. When you look my way, I just can’t help myself,” he said, when he could find the words. He squirmed, a half-hearted attempt to break out of Dinara’s grip—or get her to kiss him more—so Dinara shifted more of her weight to her hands and ducked to ghost more kisses along Roman’s jaw.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate this...whatever it is, Dinara,” Roman breathed, “But there are things I actually needed to tell you.”

“What? Why didn’t you say so sooner?” Dinara asked, sitting up.

“No need to look so worried. It’s just this: Cahrn says hair and makeup is at five. Also, Gemma’s planning an afterparty and says attendance is mandatory. I promised her I’d ask if you were up for it.”

Dinara released him. “Do you think she’ll notice if we don’t go?”

“You’re the lead, Di.”

“So?”

“It’ll be fun,” Roman pressed. “And knowing you, you’ll spend all evening fretting over how the show went if you don’t have something to distract you.”

“There are other distractions than parties,” Dinara tried, laying a hand meaningfully on Roman’s chest.

He covered it with one of his own. “We don’t have to stay the whole time.”

Dinara groaned, “I’m tired, and my feet hurt.”

Roman laughed and flipped their positions, Dinara squawking when he sat up and grabbed her leg. She nearly kicked him in the face, thinking he meant to tickle her again, but relaxed when he massaged her foot instead. “Do you need ice for your ankle?” he asked.

“No. It really wasn’t that bad.”

Roman narrowed his eyes at her. Dinara was the type to hide injuries, but she was also a terrible liar. He saw nothing but honesty in her expression—and no pain, even when he “accidentally” prodded the ankle in question. Satisfied, he returned to massaging. “I know you’ll regret missing the party.”

“Yeah,” Dinara reluctantly agreed. She let her eyes fall shut. “Is that why you want me to go so badly?”

“I’m just too scared of Gemma not to give it a fighting effort,” he said, making Dinara laugh. “Plus, if we stay, you’ll fret, I’ll brood, and we’ll fight. Party with friends seems a better option.”

Dinara hummed, then held her other foot out for Roman to massage. “But this is going to make me fall asleep.”

“Nap, then. I’ll wake you before five.”

Sleep was taking her before he’d even finished speaking. For a moment, she looked so peaceful that Roman was tempted to join her. But Dinara’s peace could never stop his own nightmares, so instead, he went to sit on the trailer stairs and enjoy the late summer sunslight.

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