Fractured Magic: Chapter Twenty

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.

As Gareth hurried down the hall, he wrapped his dressing gown tighter around himself and cursed whoever was pounding on his door so early in the morning. Isobel, Ofelia, and the servants still slept, but if this visitor kept at it, they wouldn’t for long.

Normally, Gareth was the last to rise, but he’d been forced to pull an all-nighter. Well, perhaps not forced — he’d procrastinated spectacularly on some team readings and now had less than eight hours until the next meeting. He opened the door, ready to tell his visitor he had no time to waste indulging guests, but he couldn’t get a single word out before the person was pushing his way inside.

“I beg your — why, Mr. Hallisey!”

“Hello, Gareth!” Roman said with one of his bright, boyish grins. Despite already standing in Gareth’s foyer, he asked, “Mind if I come in?”

“You may as well,” Gareth huffed, shutting the door behind him. When he turned to look at the young man, all the admonitions he’d been readying died on his tongue. That smile of Roman’s was off somehow. Or maybe it was his eyes — they were too wild, the black irises too large, and the dark circles beneath them were even darker than usual. Roman looked exhausted.

“Atiuh’s name, Roman, are you alright?”

“Hmm? Just fine,” Roman said, with a smile even less convincing than the last.

“Ah. Good,” Gareth said. For a moment, they just stared at each other, and then Gareth cleared his throat and awkwardly teased, “Well, don’t apologize for waking me, or anything.”

Roman looked down at Gareth’s velvety dressing gown. “Oh. Sorry,” he said mechanically.

“Do you have any idea what time it is, son?”

“I thought it was morning,” Roman said, rubbing his eyes. Gareth hadn’t realized the effect the young man’s stare had on his nerves until it was hidden behind his hands.

“It is. Early morning.”

It took Roman a moment to understand, and his eyes widened when he realized his mistake. “Shit! I’m really sorry, Gareth,” he said, finally sounding himself. “One of the suns is up, and I didn’t think about it beyond that. Hit me over the head and send me on my way; I can bother you at a more reasonable time.”

“Hush, I was only teasing. It’s quite alright, Roman. It’s always a pleasure to see you, and besides, I was already awake,” Gareth assured him. Damn those readings; he had a friend who needed him. “Come upstairs, why don’t you? I have some work to do, but you can keep me company.”

Gareth led an unusually subdued Roman up to his sitting room. In the corner sat his writing desk, covered in its mess of files and reports. Apart from the slivers of pale sunslight peeking around the edges of the curtains, a small electric lamp was the only source of light in the room. Roman took careful steps inside, ahead of Gareth, his hand trailing along the back of the sofa as he went. The slow, predatory movements gave Gareth an uneasy feeling, the small hairs at the back of his neck standing on end.

“You don’t seem yourself, son,” Gareth observed.

Roman said, “That’s funny, because I feel more myself than I have in a long time.”

“Is that so?”

Roman shrugged and smiled, the expression sharp but not reaching his eyes. “I’m sorry if I seem strange today, Gareth. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“That’s alright,” Gareth said, though he didn’t like that smile. “Did something happen?”

Roman blinked, then looked away. He shrugged. “A lot, actually. But...Dinara and I decided to go our separate ways.”

“What?! You seemed so close the other day! What happened?”

“Seemed is the right word for it,” Roman said. “The truth is that we’re not as compatible as we had hoped, and in the end, it was a mutual decision. While I’m sad, I’m not heartbroken.”

Gareth gave the young man’s shoulder an awkward pat. Almost imperceptibly, Roman flinched at the touch. “If you need to talk about it, I’ll listen. But give me a moment,” Gareth said, gesturing back at his desk. “I have one report to finish before I take a break.”

“Of course,” Roman said, eyeing the desk with a spark of his former curiosity.

While Gareth sat back down to work, Roman moved to the bookshelves behind him. He tried to ignore the slide of cloth-bound books being pulled from shelves, the rustle of pages, but when Roman made a surprised sound, Gareth turned to look. Roman held one of Gareth’s earliest publications, an anthology on mythical figures and their lasting impact. Gareth had, unsurprisingly, written his chapter about Egil.

“Egil, mythological?” Roman snorted, feeling Gareth’s eyes on him. “It’s only been eighty years since Histrios; that’s no time at all.”

No time at all? Gareth gave Roman a sidelong look. “Though it’s true that I would classify Egil more as a folk hero than a mythological one, technically, the defining criteria of mythology has less to do with time and more to do with how a story has shaped a culture’s belief systems. If you look back far enough, Egil stories have roots in many cultural origins. Especially if you view him as a son of Atuos—”

Roman shut the book with an audible thump. “Well, you know him best. I’ll take your word for it,” he said.

Gareth squinted, trying to interpret Roman’s dry tone. He wasn’t sure what he’d said wrong, but he felt the need to defend his credentials. “I’ve been studying him for twenty years,” he pointed out. “I do, in fact, know a thing or two about him.”

“I forgot that about you, somehow,” Roman said. He laughed, but the mocking tilt to it seemed to be directed more toward himself than Gareth, though Gareth couldn’t fathom why. “Atiuh only knows how I managed that. Have you ever met anyone who knew him?”

When Gareth only squinted harder, Roman seemed to realize he’d misinterpreted the question. “I’m really just curious,” Roman quickly clarified. “I’m not trying to challenge your expertise, or anything like that.”

To hear it said so plainly, Gareth felt foolish. “I’ve had a few short interviews, but people who knew him well are hard to find. And when I do find them, they often won’t talk about him. In Damael, no one wants to cross their Oracle. In Alfheimr, they only sneer — as much as alfar ever sneer, anyway. I asked Magistrate Diomis about him at a Yuletide Party once and I was half sure the nympherai would have me banned from the premises for it. If only I could go to Home — I’m sure I’d have luck there.”

Roman nodded and perched on the arm of Gareth’s sofa. “What about Prince Nochdvor?”

“I haven’t worked myself up to asking him, just yet. In Histrios, the Magistrates ordered Egil’s capture and execution, but they say it was Prince Nochdvor who fired the actual shot. I’ve read countless accounts saying the two were close, but to pull the trigger, Prince Nochdvor must have truly hated him in the end.”

Roman watched Gareth closely, his black eyes glittering in the low lamplight. “Are you afraid that if you ask him, he’ll tell you the stories about Histrios are true? What will you do if Egil wasn’t the hero you’ve written about all these years?”

Gareth fidgeted. It was hard not to shy away from those eyes of Roman’s when they saw so easily through to his greatest fears. “I think that’s unlikely,” he said.

Roman’s expression didn’t change. “Why?”

“None of these stories about Egil are, strictly speaking, true,” Gareth said, gesturing to his bookshelves. “They’re full of narrative embellishments, exaggerations, and misinterpretations. Some are pure fabrication. But if you study a subject for long enough, you see a pattern in the stories, and in that pattern you find the real truth. By all accounts, Egil loved this world and the people in it. Everything he did, he did for them. So even if Prince Nochdvor looks me in the eye and confirms that Egil was nothing more than a mad dog in the end, he was still the hero I know.”

Whatever Roman expected Gareth to say, it clearly wasn’t that. His eyes widened. “But—”

“No buts. I told you I’ve interviewed people he helped, didn’t I? I’ve seen firsthand the positive impact he’s had, the glowing brand he left on those whose lives were touched by him. Histrios doesn’t erase all the good he did. It’s far more nuanced than that. We simply can never learn the full truth of what happened — even if I ask Prince Nochdvor, Egil isn’t here himself to tell his side of things. So all I can do is look at what I know, that Egil was someone who always tried to do the right thing, and have faith in that.”

Roman slid off the arm onto the couch cushion, then flopped onto his back and stared up at Gareth’s ceiling. “And what did doing the right thing ever get him?” he grumbled.

“I can’t speak for him, but I know what it got me,” Gareth said, earning himself a curious look from Roman. “When I was young, my nanny gifted me a book of Egil stories. It was thanks to her, and certainly not my parents, that I learned love, and it was thanks to those stories that I learned about compassion and courage. I’ve tried to live every day holding to those values, and now I’m teaching them to Ofelia, as well. And when our son is born, I’ll teach him, too. It’s the nature of kindness to grow and spread, but the unfortunate truth is that we rarely see the results of the seeds we sow. And so it comes around again to having faith.”

Gareth only had time to see Roman’s brows furrow before the young man slung his arms over his eyes, hiding them. “I wish I could have that kind of faith.”

“Having faith isn’t a wish, it’s a choice.”

“I see,” Roman said. Gareth thought he heard Roman’s voice break on the words.

“Does this have something to do with Ms. Condeh?” Gareth asked gently.

Roman sighed. “Well, I...maybe. Traveling with her was easy — but cowardly, too, I think. I don’t know what to do now.” When Gareth approached, he peeked briefly out from under his arm, his eyes suspiciously red-rimmed.

“You’re a bright, charming young man with excellent prospects,” Gareth assured him. “You have plenty of options.”

Roman’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. After a moment and a sniffle, he sat up, the couch cushion leaving his hair mussed. “Options, yes, but which is right? How did your Egil of myth and folklore always know the right thing to do?”

“I imagine he followed his heart,” Gareth said. It was his turn now to perch on the arm of his couch. From this angle, his young visitor looked especially pitiful. Perhaps that was why Gareth said what he said next. “I hate to drag you into this, but…if you’re truly at a loss for what to do, you would be welcome to join us on the mission to Illyon.”

Roman stared at Gareth. “What?”

“I know what you’re thinking. Why would you want to, right? But I think it’s a chance to do good, if that’s what you’re looking for. That first night we met, I remember you expressing concern for Orean’s safety. If you come with, you could—”

“No,” Roman interrupted. “I meant, can you do that? Invite me? Do you have the authority?”

“Ah,” Gareth said. “Yes and no. Ultimately, I’ll have to run it by Moira, but Unity has allowed me a bodyguard, and the fellow I’d previously chosen from among Moira’s candidates can no longer join us. So I have my pick, and you have already saved my life once.”

“What happened to the last guy?”

“I’m not sure,” Gareth admitted. “Moira’s assistant phoned me yesterday to tell me he’s no longer fit for duty. I’m not entirely sure what that means.”

Listening to this, Roman’s expression turned complicated.

“I know working for Unity is probably not ideal, but I think it would be nice to have you along,” Gareth said, guessing at the meaning for it.

Silence stretched between them while Roman thought. Finally, he heaved a heavy sigh. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it, provided we get your sister’s blessing.”

“Ah, really? That’s wonderful!” Gareth clapped his hands together. “Don’t you worry about Moira; I’m sure I can bully her into agreeing, since she forced me into this mess in the first place. Do you have any questions? Anything I can say to allay your concerns?”

“There is one thing I’m curious about,” Roman began, looking innocently up at Gareth through long, dark lashes. “I’ve heard so many rumors about what happened. People keep mentioning magic – do you know why? Is there really magic involved?”

It was a reasonable thing to be apprehensive about, Gareth supposed – the accounts in the newspaper were getting more outlandish by the day. Explosions, magical teleportation, sleeping spells. “No one has spoken about it on the official record, or in any of our meetings,” Gareth said. And that was true. Even Moria had kept tight-lipped when Gareth had questioned her. But he remembered that day on the island, listening to Leandros and Rheamaren Nochdvor argue with the Magistrates through closed doors. “That said, I do believe the Nochdvors saw something strange that day.”

“So Leandros knows,” Roman sighed, defeated. And there it was again — Roman’s casual use of the prince’s given name, just like that day at the theater. “I guess I really will have to talk to him.”

“If you’re planning on joining the team, I would think so,” Gareth said.

He’d suspected as much, but Gareth felt certain now that Roman and Leandros knew each other. He opened his mouth to ask about it, but then Roman interrupted by waving Gareth back toward his desk. “I know you have work to do, Gareth. I feel much better now, so you needn’t waste any more time with me. I’ll be quiet as a church mouse.”

True to his word, Roman quieted after that, but even after returning to his desk Gareth could feel those dark eyes on his back. He skimmed hastily through the last few reports, turning when he was done only to find Roman curled up on the couch, asleep. Gareth smiled and draped a blanket over Roman before heading upstairs to try to get some sleep of his own.

Roman woke much later on a sofa that was too short for him, his feet hanging absurdly off the edge. A muscle in his back gave a sharp protest when he sat up and he buried his head in his hands with a groan, blocking the bright sunslight. He was far too old to be passing out on random couches.

It took him a moment to remember where he was, and with it came all the memories from the night before. He didn’t want to think about any of it — not Dinara, not his dreams, not Unity. So instead, he blinked around at Gareth’s sitting room, and then down at himself. At some point, a knitted blanket had been draped across over him.

He shouldn’t have come here. He didn’t know why he had. But as long as he was here...

He folded the blanket and wandered over to Gareth’s desk, then picked idly through the papers strewn across it. Most had CONFIDENTIAL sprawled across them, but Roman’s eyes caught on some familiar names. He picked a page up to study it more closely.

“Oh, you’re up,” a voice came from behind Roman. Subtly folding the roster and slipping it into his vest pocket, Roman turned to find a maid standing in the doorway, regarding him with curiosity and a faint blush dusting her cheeks. When she realized she was staring, she dropped into a hasty curtsy. “The Ranulfs are taking breakfast out on the balcony; they’ve asked that you join them.”

“Thank you,” Roman said. “Where—?”

“Down the hall and to the right, through the dining room. Would you like me to show you the way?”

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary,” Roman said, slipping past her.

Following the directions, he turned down a cheerfully-decorated hallway and found an alfar man lounging in the doorway, looking bored. An eyepatch covered one eye, reddish-brown hair flopping into the other, but Roman stopped short when their gazes met. He could always tell an Enforcer by the look in their eyes.

“Got any weapons on you?” the man asked.

Roman raised an eyebrow, then both of his arms, doing a slow turn to show that he was unarmed. Satisfied, the man stepped aside and nodded Roman through.

While the dining room itself was empty, a flute-like laugh drifted in through the open balcony doors. Isobel. Roman followed the sound to find all three Ranulfs and a stranger sitting around a table, the white ends of its tablecloth snapping and fluttering in the fall breeze. He’d never met the human Magistrate, but he’d known as soon as he saw that Enforcer in the hallway that he would find her here.

“Good morning!” Gareth called. He sat facing Roman, his back to the rooftops of Gallontea. Beyond him sat the cliffs of Unity’s island and the flat blue horizon. Streaks of color danced through the sky above their heads as, for once, Gallontea wasn’t lost under a blanket of smog. Roman had thought he was past finding beauty in this crooked city, but the view here took his breath away.

“Morning,” Roman greeted, guarded. Truthfully, he had no desire to dine with a Magistrate. “I don’t want to intrude—”

“It’s a good thing you’re not, then,” Isobel said cheerfully. Sitting beside Gareth, she gestured at the open seat across from her...next to the Magistrate. “Join us. Help yourself to some breakfast.”

“I—”

“I didn’t want to wake you; it seemed like you needed the sleep,” Gareth said. “Moira, this is Roman Hallisey, the one I was telling you about. Roman, this is my sister, Moira Ranulf.”

Moira’s eyes trailed over Roman’s face — the dark bags under his eyes, his mussed hair — and then his clothes — well made, but worn and several seasons out of style. Her assessment ended with his scarred, calloused hands, and Roman self-consciously tugged his sleeve down so she wouldn’t see the brand on his wrist.

“Pleasure,” she said flatly.

“Likewise,” Roman said, matching her tone. In agreeing to Gareth’s bodyguard idea, he’d foolishly hoped he wouldn’t have to meet with any Magistrates personally. Had Gareth already told her about his offer? From Moira’s cold look, Roman had to assume the answer was yes. With a sigh, he took a seat beside her.

The table was piled high with more food than five people could comfortably eat: plates of rolls, bowls of fruit, warm ham and a pot of rich, bitter coffee Roman could smell from where he sat. He felt a little out of place, though he couldn’t tell if it was the luxury or the familial domesticity. Both were foreign to him.

“And of course, this is our daughter Ofelia,” Isobel said. “Ofelia, say hello to Mr. Hallisey. He’s a friend of your father’s.”

Ofelia stared at him. “How d’you do,” she said through a mouthful of potatoes.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ofelia,” Roman said seriously. “I like your dress.”

Ofelia muttered something that could have ostensibly been a “thank you”.

“She looks just like you, Isobel,” Roman observed.

“Fortunately for her,” Gareth agreed.

“She has Gareth’s curls,” Isobel said, tucking a lock of dark hair behind Ofelia’s ear. Ofelia and Roman’s eyes both went to Gareth’s bald head.

“I choose to shave it, you know,” Gareth said stiffly.

Isobel made a sound that could have been a cough. “Gareth told me what happened,” she ventured, watching Roman for signs of unease. “About Dinara. You’re welcome to stay with us a while, if you need a place. We have a spare room.”

Roman stared at her and, when Gareth nodded his agreement, at Gareth. “I...” was all he managed before having to stop. There was a strange lump in his throat. He’d resigned himself to cheap inns at best, the Oracle’s safe house at worst. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Gareth said with a smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners, lines left by a lifetime of smiling. “Consider it thanks to you for saving my life.”

Moira looked up from her plate. “I beg your pardon, Gareth?”

“Didn’t I say? Roman’s the one who saved me the night I was mugged. That was how we first met.”

The Magistrate studied Roman anew, her gaze more calculating this time. It was a familiar look, found in the eyes of a Unity Magistrate — like a man eyeing up a painting he was thinking to buy. It was a look that reminded Roman of past pain, of a long line of Magistrates who’d hurt and used him and felt no remorse. He had no doubt Moira would do the same, if given the chance.

“You have my thanks, Mr. Hallisey,” Moira said, her tone warmer now. “Gareth mentioned the invitation he extended to you. Have you done any personal guard work before?”

“I have,” Roman said. “I’ve been travelling with the Webhon Players for two years now, in that capacity.”

“Ah! The Webhon Players,” Moira said. “That was an excellent show they put on, the other night. It’s a pity the theater had to close after the break-in.”

Gareth choked on his food and started coughing into his elbow. “The what?” he asked.

“It was in the papers this morning, darling,” Isobel said. “The island was locked down yesterday afternoon, after some intruders somehow got past the bridge. I was meaning to ask you about that, Moira. You can’t really believe orinian terrorists were behind this.”

“Terrorists?” Gareth repeated.

“That’s what the papers are saying,” Isobel explained.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it,” Moira said stiffly.

Isobel wouldn’t be dissuaded. She clicked her tongue. “It just strikes me as unlikely. How did they get onto the island? How did they even get into Gallontea? Hasn’t the city been closed to orinians since last week? What were they trying to accomplish?”

“I don’t see why you’re getting so emotional about this,” Moira said.

Isobel pursed her lips. If Roman hadn’t already been keeping his head down for this conversation; he would have done so at that scary look. “Emotional? I’m just trying to understand the facts. Did anyone see the intruders? Where did the papers get their information? Is Unity going to release a statement, or—?”

“There will be no statement. Gareth, will you pass the butter?”

Gareth picked up the butter tray but didn’t immediately hand it over. “What about our neighbors in the prison? They won’t be punished for this, will they? You know they’re innocent, Moira.”

“As a matter of fact,” Moira said, “They broke out of their cells and escaped with the criminals responsible. I would watch who you call innocent in the future, Gareth.”

Isobel sat back, stunned. “They escaped?”

Gareth’s eyes found Roman’s across the table. Roman should have expected it. Yesterday morning, he and Dinara had called Gareth asking about the orinians that were arrested. Later that same day, those orinians were broken out of prison. Whether or not Gareth suspected Roman, though, he said nothing.

Moira narrowed her eyes at Isobel and Gareth. “I will remind you both that those orinians are now fugitives and they are to be considered dangerous. If they show their faces here, or if you learn anything—”

“We would tell you right away, of course,” Isobel said. Though her voice was sweet, her smile was sharp.

“Were any of the — the people involved caught?” Gareth asked.

“Not yet, but I have faith they will be,” Moira said.

Roman kept waiting for Gareth to blame him, but it never came. Instead, Ofelia interrupted, loudly declaring that she wanted to go play. The tension cracked like ice. Isobel laughed and stood with some difficulty, sidling around the table with her hand on her stomach. She scooped Ofelia up. “I’m going to take Ofelia up to her governess. I’ll be right back.”

Moira watched her go, then asked Gareth, “How far along is she now?”

“Almost five months.”

“How time flies.”

“Mm. I hope I don’t miss the birth,” Gareth said. If it weren’t for his frigid expression, the comment could have seemed offhanded. For a moment, Gareth looked just like his sister; it was a side of the man Roman hadn’t seen before. Then, Gareth softened on a sigh. “Do you have to make everything so difficult, Moira? Isobel is just trying to understand what happened.”

Moira shrugged. This had the tread of a well-worn argument, and Roman watched with fascination. That Gareth and Isobel would try to sway Moira at all surprised him; that she wouldn’t listen even to family did not. He used to believe that, like everyone, the Magistrates had kind sides — families they loved, values they stood for, people they respected. Too late, he learned they knew none of it. No love, no values, no respect.

One day, he would at least like to teach them fear.

Decisively, he rolled up his sleeves and rested his elbows on the table, flashing the brand that marked him as one of Unity’s own Enforcers. Moira noticed it almost immediately and went still, the color draining from her face.

“Is something wrong, Magistrate?” he asked innocently, licking the jam off his knife. It was blunt, meant only for spreading butter, but she would know. She would know that in his hands, it was the deadliest weapon.

“Moira?” Gareth echoed, watching his sister with concern.

Moira’s eyes darted toward the door, as if she was contemplating running — or calling for her Enforcer. Roman smiled again, silently daring her to try it. Her eyes dropped to his knife, and she lied to save her own life. “Not at all. That is, I’m quite alright,” she said. Abruptly, she stood. “Unfortunately, though, I just remembered something important I must do on the island. Give my apologies to Isobel, Gareth...Mr. Hallisey.”

Roman’s smile fell. He watched Gareth watch her flee, the man’s brows knitted in confusion, and all he felt was pity. Moira Ranulf had just abandoned her baby brother to what she thought was a ruthless killer, and Gareth didn’t even realize it.

“That was odd,” Gareth said, returning to his breakfast. He glanced at Roman across the table and frowned. “Ouch. That must have been painful — what happened?”

For a moment, Roman thought Gareth meant the brand, but then he realized Gareth was looking at the other arm — at a sealed pink scar on the back of his hand. “Oh, this?” Roman asked, holding his hand up to the light. The scar was mirrored on his palm, where the blade had pierced right through his hand. He considered it for a moment, then said, “It was a cooking accident.”

I love characters who are liars. Thank you for reading, as always, and apologies for the unexpected hiatus. To be fully transparent, we had an unexpected pet death in the family, and finding the energy and heart to write has been difficult. We're getting into one of my favorite arcs of the story, though, so there's that to look forward to!

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