Fractured Magic: Chapter Twenty-Two

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 swept into the parlor for the fourth time in as many minutes, immediately dropping onto his hands and knees to peer under the furniture. “Has anyone seen my green cravat?” he called. When Isobel’s reply came from closer than he’d expected, he jumped, hitting his head on the bottom of the sofa.

“I have it,” she said. She stood behind him, tie in hand. “You left it sitting out; I think Wyndie was just trying to tidy up.”

“Ah, thoughtful girl. Is she up with Ofelia?” “I already told you I gave her the night off,” Isobel said reproachfully.

“Sorry, Bel, I’ve had a lot on my mind. Where’s Ofelia, then?”

“She should be down soon. She wanted to put her shoes on all by herself. You should have seen her; she was quite insistent,” Isobel said. She put on a pair of dangling earrings, their glittering green catching in the light and jingling whenever she turned her head. Her dress was a similar shade, though not half as elegant as the one she wore to the Webhon Players’ Performance, with less lace and a smaller bustle. Gareth found he liked it better. “Is Roman going to join us? Did you invite him?”

Gareth laughed, remembering the look on Roman’s face when Gareth had invited him to church. “I did. I think he would have accepted just to be polite, but a Unity messenger came and swept him away.”

“He really will be joining the team, then?”

“Moira hasn’t outright said no, which is a promising sign. I’m sure there’s some sort of interview process that must be followed, though.”

Before they could talk about it further, Ofelia pranced in, whining about how her shoes hurt. Isobel took her hand and led her over to the couch. “That’s because you put them on the wrong feet, silly girl. Let your father fix them for you.”

Gareth smiled at the two of them, feeling his chest constrict. He would really miss them. “How pretty you look in your new dress, Ofelia,” he said, kneeling in front of his daughter and pulling her shoes off one at a time. “How old are you now? Twenty?”

“No, I’m five!”

“What? Five?” Gareth exclaimed. “I simply don’t believe that. You look much too grown up to be only five.”

“I am! Momma, tell him!”

“It’s true,” Isobel said. She managed not to laugh, but Gareth could see the threat of it in her smile. “She’s only five, but she’s almost six.”

“Oh, almost six. That explains it, then.” Having fixed the shoes, Gareth stood. “Are you ladies ready to go? I know Ofelia doesn’t want to miss the songs.”

The Ranulfs shared their rented carriage with the Carols, another family renting in the same building. All seven of them managed to fit in the cramped interior, and as the driver spurred the carriage into motion, leading them off down the bumpy streets, one of the Carols complimented Ofelia’s dress. After Isobel made Ofelia—suddenly turned shy—say thank you, Isobel returned the compliment by telling the Carol women how handsome their sons looked in their new finery. And that was all the conversation that passed on the short ride to their destination. Before long, the driver was pulling to a stop on the busy street. Gareth climbed out first, helping the women, but the Carol boys were content to jump without assistance, one of them landing in mud and ruining his shiny shoes. Gareth caught Ofelia before she could follow their example.

Before them, the pointed spires of the building stood dark against the dusky sky. On the lower levels, lights poured out through stained glass, setting the street aglow. They shone down on the heads of the congregation, Gareth and his family among these, Gareth and Isobel walking arm in arm and Ofelia winding through the crowd ahead of them.

Gareth waited for the familiar peace of an evening church service to descend, but for the first time in his life, it didn’t come. This Gallontean church might be louder and colder than the one back home, but even it usually gave him some sort of calm. Tonight, he couldn’t find it beneath thoughts of missing Kings and Unity missions. Eftychia’s return to Gallontea had jarred him. He’d thought he had more time.

They found an open pew in the sanctuary, the church’s congregation arranged in a half circle around a metal spire pointing to the sky. The spire was meant to represent Atiuh, though every sect of Atiuhism had different representations of what they thought He looked like. Sometimes he was human, or nymph, or dragon, and then others, He was something more fantastical. The Gallontean church didn’t give him a shape. Gallontea was too diverse a city—this way, no one argued about which species Atiuh belonged to, even if they all secretly believed it was their own.

The service began shortly after their arrival. By the time the hymnal singing was done, Ofelia had stopped paying attention. She had a great deal of patience for a five-year-old, but even she had a limit. So did Gareth, and more so than usual of late. His mind kept drifting, and something about the way the preacher spoke on kindness and faith that made Gareth feel ill. He stayed silent throughout the service, on their way back to the carriage, and even on the ride home. He was grateful for the Carols’ presence, as it meant Isobel could do nothing but shoot him worried looks. If she asked him what was wrong, he wouldn’t know how to answer.

“Will you put Ofelia to bed, Gareth?” Isobel asked as the carriage rolled to a final stop in front of their building. Ofelia had fallen asleep on the ride, lulled by the rocking of the carriage and the warmth of her parents on either side of her. She woke slightly during the transition from carriage to bedroom, just enough to wrap her arms sleepily around Gareth’s shoulders as he carried her and then help him get her into a sleeping gown. He sat with her and took all the small pins and clips out of her hair, singing an old hymn under his breath as he did. Ofelia piped in sleepily where she knew the words, or where she thought she knew them.

“Momma says you’re leaving,” Ofelia said when he’d finished.

Gareth almost dropped the hairbrush in his hand. “Yes,” he said slowly, “For a little while.”

“How long?”

Gareth struggled to speak past the lump in his throat. He remembered all the times he’d had this exact conversation with his own father, all the times he’d been consoled with later-broken promises. He never thought he’d do the same to his own child. “Not long at all, love. Soon, you and your mother will go back home, and I’ll be there with you before you know it.”

“When are you going?”

“Very soon.” Too soon.

“You’ll bring me back a present, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Gareth said, laughing past the cold dread pooling in his chest. “I always do.”

Ofelia fell asleep while Gareth was brushing her hair. He wrapped her blankets around her, blew out the lamp burning on the table, and backed out of the room, not letting her sleeping form out of his sight until the door clicked shut. Then, he rested his forehead against the cool wood and tried not to think about the danger of the upcoming mission.

Eventually, Gareth returned to his and Isobel’s room and found Isobel still getting ready for bed. “I think I lost my brooch back at the church,” she said when she saw him. “The one from your mother.”

“Shall I go look for it?” Gareth asked, jumping at the opportunity. Anything to save him from thinking about the lies he’d just told his daughter.

Isobel gave him a concerned look, the same she’d given him in the carriage. “You don’t have to do it tonight.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I need to get some fresh air. Besides, there’s another service tomorrow morning—someone will surely find it and take it if I wait.”

“If you don’t mind, then,” Isobel said, clearly not buying it. “Thank you, Gareth.”

On his way back down to the kitchen, Gareth passed the room they’d had prepared for Roman. The door stood open, the room inside dark. Roman’s meager possessions sat on the bed, their owner still out despite the late hour.

This time, Gareth walked to the church. Only a few blocks had come and gone before he reached the cathedral, the lights from inside now dim. The first door he tried was locked, as were the second and third. Only the fourth and last of the church’s doors opened when Gareth pulled the handle. Slipping inside, Gareth finally felt an echo of that peace he’d been looking for earlier. He wandered through the halls, quiet and filled with the solemnity of night and hollow space. Gareth had never realized how large the church was, how high its ceilings were. It was usually too packed with people to notice much beyond the crowd.

Being here alone made Gareth feel small, insignificant. It was strangely comforting, he found.

Only one or two lamps were lit to guide the way, and with the sharp architecture, shadows pooled at every corner. At the doors to the sanctuary, Gareth paused to admire yet another thing about this place he’d never paid enough attention to: the three statues above the sanctuary doors.

Above the largest of the three was a statue of a black, sharp-edged dragon, his bat-like wings stretching above and over the statues on either side of him. His mouth hung open in a snarl, rows of intricately carved teeth grinning down at Gareth. To his right stood a red statue of a nympherai woman made from fire. She held a hand toward the dragon, as did the statue on the dragon’s other side—a human male, tall and proud in a full suit of armor, the kind popular during the Great War. All three of Atiuh’s Guardians, created to protect this world and now protecting his sanctuary.

Gareth stared up at Tellaos and the dragon stared back.

According to the scriptures, some of the Guardians had done their job better than others. It was said that millions of years ago, Atiuh spun the world into being. In one corner of one continent in the vast universe Atiuh created, he made life. He made life in plants, in trees and in flowers, but that was not enough. He made life in animals, in small insects and massive Misenean beasts that stood taller than mountains, but even that was not enough. From them, then, Atiuh created the first intelligent life.

He made three kinds of people: humans, nympherai, and dragons. Over time—thousands and thousands of years— the people grew and changed, and Atiuh changed the world to accommodate them. He spread them across the land, gave them the space they needed to adapt. The various races were born— sapien, alfar, marionite, orinian. Dryad, fae, frìth. Dragons of red, blue, and white. Then, Atiuh again made life from nothing.

Some say it was because of his mortals’ flaws, that they were not enough in the same way his animals and plants weren’t enough. But the more popular teaching, the one Gareth preferred, was that he simply loved his creations so much that he wanted to ensure they were protected. He made three more beings, these incapable of dying or aging. Three beings, each a patron of one of the species. Human Atuos, nympherai Ellaes, and the great black serpent Tellaos. Each of these, Atiuh gave a fractured piece of his magic.

For a time, the Guardians watched over Calaidia, but Tellaos grew resentful of the job he’d been given and the people he’d been made to protect. He started the Great War with his manipulation and tricks as an act of defiance against Atiuh.

Or so the story went, anyway.

Gareth pushed through Tellaos’ door and into the sanctuary, following the aisle past rows of pews to where his family had been sitting. He caught the glimpse of green almost immediately—there was the brooch, nestled against the leg of a pew. He grabbed it and turned to go, but his gaze caught on the obelisk at the center of the sanctuary.

Without consciously willing his feet forward, Gareth climbed the steps toward it. He touched the metal, feeling its smooth texture beneath his fingers. It was cold, and Gareth felt no peace. He didn’t know why he’d expected anything different.

Voice echoing in the hollow space, Gareth said, “Atiuh, if you’re listening—,”

He stopped. If, he’d said. When had it become an if?

He continued out loud, “I could do with your blessing right now. Bring me safely home from this journey, back to my daughter and wife. It’s silly, but I’m scared that I—.” Gareth cut off with a sigh. “I suppose I’m being selfish. We could all use your blessing—everyone on the team, everyone in Orean, and King Nochdvor, wherever he is.”

Gareth withdrew his hand from the obelisk, the weight of his fears settling heavily on him. Newspapers pushing war, scheming governments, diplomatic teams with more soldiers than diplomats. It was too much. It pushed Gareth to his knees. “Things are terrible here, Atiuh. There may be a war, and our leaders are…” Gareth stopped himself before he could speak any treasonous thoughts out loud. “Help us solve this problem in Orean before it gets worse.”

He rested his forehead against the cool bronze. He didn’t expect a response. He didn’t expect a miracle. But the hollow nothingness that he got made him feel foolish. He sat back and stared at the idol, and still, nothing happened.

Eventually, the soft cadence of voices drifted in from outside the sanctuary doors. Gareth wiped his eyes, clearing away tears he hadn’t noticed forming, and made a hasty retreat, slipping out a side door before he was caught in here after dark. He followed the winding hallways of the church and didn’t stop until he was back on the busy street.

When he reached his flat and found he still hadn’t recovered, he ducked around the gated veranda of the café next door and slipped into the alley between the two buildings. Not quite ready to go inside, he lit a cigarette, but a familiar voice stopped him cold before he could ever raise it to his lips.

“Just two for me, and toast if you have it. Anything for you, Hallisey? My treat.”

Gareth looked around, but he was alone in the alley. The voice must’ve come from the other side of the high wooden fence.

“I’m alright, thanks.” Another familiar voice. Noticing a small gap between the planks, not more than an inch wide, Gareth shuffled toward it.

“Ah, right. You had dinner with my brother and his family, didn’t you?” That was Moira, her proud voice muffled but unmistakable. Gareth put out his cigarette. The proper thing to do would be to announce his presence. Not doing so would be a betrayal of both his friend and his sister. But then, there was no point in startling them unnecessarily.

Guiltily, he looked through the hole in the fence just in time to see Roman drop into the seat across from Moira. They sat at a small bistro table, in shadow and well apart from the other patrons.

“I was surprised you asked to meet me here,” Roman said, emphasizing here and not asked to meet. And it was strange, when Gareth thought about it. Moira liked grand, formal venues. She used Unity’s splendor as a tool, both to boast and belittle. To invite Roman to this private café meant she wanted secrecy.

“As surprised as I was to see that brand on your wrist this morning,” Moira replied. In trying to blend in, she had dressed plainly — the plainest Gareth had ever seen her. He could only see her side profile from his position, but he could tell her face was set in its pleasant politician’s smile.

Roman held his hand up to the café’s lights and examined his wrist. There, Gareth could see a patch of dark brown skin that might have been a scar — or a brand, as Moira said. “Oh, this thing? I’ve had it for ages.”

“I’m not convinced it’s the real thing. If you had really been an Enforcer, I would remember you.”

It was obvious Moira was baiting him, trying to get him to give up information. Roman knew it, too, his smile turning sharp. “You’ve only been a Magistrate for twenty years. What would you know?”

Gareth pressed himself to the fence, trying to angle himself so he could see them both at once. What was Roman saying? That he’d been an Enforcer – whatever that was – for longer than Moira had been a Magistrate? Strange as it sounded, it echoed something Roman had said to him just that morning: it’s only been eighty years since Histrios. That’s no time at all. Gareth had assumed Roman was sapien, younger than him, but he may have been off the mark.

Moira tapped her fingers against the table, the only sign that Roman’s answer unsettled her. “Any Enforcers who leave Unity are watched.”

“And mysteriously turn up dead not long after, right?” Roman asked with a wry smile. “Well, I got away. Where are Diomis and Malong? Didn’t you ask either of them about me?”

When Moira hesitated for a beat too long, Roman sat forward. “You didn’t, did you?” he asked, sounding almost gleeful. “Want to keep me as your little secret? A rogue Enforcer tucked in your back pocket?”

Moira scoffed and looked away, so Gareth could no longer see her face. He had to strain to make out her next words. “I invited you here to discuss your application to be my brother’s personal guard. That’s nothing the others need concern themselves with.”

“And what is the state of my application, Magistrate?”

“Rejected, obviously. You would be mad to think I’d let you anywhere near this mission.”

Roman threw back his head and laughed. To anyone watching, it would seem as if Moira had told a particularly funny joke. “Who says I’m not?”

“You’re going to attract attention,” Moira scolded. She watched Roman more warily, after that outburst. “I’m going to be frank with you, Hallisey. Given the circumstances of this meeting and your...unique insight into Unity’s workings, I like to think we’ve reached a certain level of candour, you and I. So tell me plainly: were you the one behind yesterday’s attack?”

Gareth held his breath.

“So you’re saying that because I know Unity’s secrets, I should tell you mine?”

Gareth sighed. It wasn’t a confirmation, but it wasn’t a denial, either.

“I’m saying we can be honest with each other.”

“Give me something interesting, then, and maybe I’ll do the same,” Roman said. There was a cruel tilt to his smile that was new to Gareth.

“This is not a negotiation,” Moira said coldly. “Why did you do it?”

And with that, Roman’s smile fell, leaving only the cruelty. “You know why. You had no right holding those orinians.”

“I find it hard to believe you went to such lengths — storming the barracks, risking arrest and rediscovery — just for a city guard and a simple schoolteacher. Did they know something?”

Roman sighed. “That’s the problem with you Magistrates. You want so badly to pull the strings, but you don’t even understand the people you’re trying to make puppets out of. And until you learn basic compassion, you never will.”

“I understand enough,” Moira snapped, her politician’s smile broken on a snarl. “For example, I understand you have someone you care about — a promising young actress named Dinara Condeh. And speaking of Ms. Condeh, I noticed something strange in yesterday’s logbooks. Her name is recorded leaving the island, but not entering it. Unusual, don’t you think?”

When Roman only glared, she continued, “You may think your employment history makes you untouchable, Mr. Hallisey, but she is not. One of our Enforcers died yesterday. Two others are seriously wounded. The people are demanding answers, and a discrepancy like this is all we need to launch an investigation into Ms. Condeh.”

“What do you want?” Roman interrupted, anger clear in his voice. “You’re working up to blackmailing me, right? Then you must want something.”

“Just your honesty. I have some questions.”

“If you noticed this logbook discrepancy yourself, what’s stopping me from killing you here and letting the secret die with us?” Roman asked. When Moira smirked, he said, “Oh, I know all about your shadow, the Enforcer on the roof. A sharpshooter, right? I wonder just how sharp their shooting is. I’d wager I’m faster. Shall we test it?”

“Don’t do anything foolish, Hallisey,” Moira warned.

“I could say the same for you. Threatening the people I care about — that’s very foolish.”

Gareth had never seen Roman like this, so angry and steely-eyed. He really believed Roman capable of harming Moira. Should he intervene? Or would that only put himself in trouble?

Moira said, “Perhaps I was too hasty with my threats. Ms. Condeh seems like a sweet girl. I don’t want to see her wrapped up in this either, but in my defense, you threatened my family first, infiltrating brunch the way you did.”

“I never threatened Gareth or Isobel!” Roman objected, sounding almost petulant. “Believe it or not, Magistrate, my presence at brunch had nothing to do with you.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

Roman folded his arms. “Do or don’t. I’m done trying to convince your kind of anything.”

“This leaves us at an impasse, then, Mr. Hallisey. What would you say to this: if you answer my questions, I’ll pull some strings and ensure neither you nor Ms. Condeh are ever implicated in yesterday’s attack.”

Roman narrowed his eyes at her. “Ask your questions, then, but if you ever break your word, there will be consequences.”

Moira nodded and sipped her tea, unbothered. “Understood. First question: who are you?”

“Not that one. Ask another.”

Moira set her cup back in the saucer with a loud clink, her expression turning grim. “How did you get away from the Enforcers?”

“I faked my death — how else?” Roman asked with a shrug. “Ask me something interesting, Magistrate.”

“Were you behind King Nochdvor’s disappearance?”

Gareth’s breath caught, and he didn’t let it out again until Roman smiled and said, “I can see why you’d think so, but no. I’m as curious about that as you are.”

“And that’s why you want to join this mission?” Moira asked, buttering her toast now. How she could be so casual about this, Gareth didn’t know.

“Partially. I also want to make sure you don’t start a war in Orean.”

“Is that what you think Unity is after? War?” Moira asked. As closely as he was watching Roman, Gareth noticed uncertainty flicker across his face. Moira did not, however, continuing, “I think you have the wrong idea about us, Mr. Hallisey. We only want peace. Next question: what are your intentions toward my brother?”

At that, Roman rolled his eyes. “I already told you, I like Gareth. I’m friends with him.”

Despite the intensity of the situation and all that he didn’t understand, Gareth felt relief at that, at least. If it had all been a lie, well. He didn’t know what he would have done.

“And yet you used him to get an invitation to the team,” Morris said.

“No, I didn’t! Inviting me was Gareth’s idea. Whether or not you believe it, he and I share some values. I had no thoughts at all about joining the team before this morning.”

“Then what are you doing in Gallontea?”

“Traveling with the Webhon Players. Is that allowed, Magistrate? Or do I need your permission?” Roman mocked. “Can I ask you a question? How much does Gareth know about all this — about the Enforcers?”

Moira laughed, sharp and short. “Nothing at all. Could you imagine?”

“I see,” Roman said. Then, he lifted his eyes to the fence behind Moira and looked right at Gareth.

Gareth flung himself away from the fence, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He stood there for what felt like ages, listening to his heartbeat slow in his ears, before he realized Roman couldn’t have seen him. The hole was too small. Too much distance sat between them.

“Well...all I have for you,” Gareth heard Moira say, more garbled now that he’d moved away from the fence. He inched back toward it, this time avoiding the hole between the planks. “I think it would be in your best interest to leave Gallontea — and my brother’s life — as soon as possible. There’s no need for goodbyes between you. I agreed to pardon your past crimes, Hallisey, but having a rogue Enforcer stay in my city is another matter. If you continue to loiter, I may need to take action.”

There was a pause while Roman considered the warning. “Maybe you’re right. And about yesterday? And Dinara?”

“You have my word neither you nor Ms. Condeh will take any of the blame for yesterday’s proceedings.”

Something about the way she said it had Gareth pressing his eye to the hole again. Roman, he saw, had also gone tense. “Then who will?” he asked — slowly, as if afraid of the answer.

Moira took a casual sip of her tea and said, “We Magistrates already have a plan in place. You needn’t concern yourself with it.”

“If you’re framing someone else for something I did, I think I do.”

“Someone needs to take the blame, Mr. Hallisey. If this crime goes unpunished for much longer, people will begin to lose faith in Unity.”

“I’ll ask you again, Magistrate: who are you framing?”

“Such a crude word. He’s hardly innocent, himself.”

“So it’s a he. Knowing you lot, you’ll be trying to kill two birds with one stone, get rid of somebody who’s in your way.” He sat back, thinking. “They’ll be friendless, probably, easy to frame. Some sort of public figure.”

Gareth figured it out before Roman did. “No,” he whispered, dread swelling in him like a balloon filled too far.

“Tell me it’s not Leandros Nochdvor,” Roman said, expression grim.

Moira scowled at him. “You’re clever. Perhaps you understand Unity better than I thought,” she said, painfully casually. Her tone was in stark contrast with the horror Gareth felt, with the anger in Roman’s eyes. “Think about it, Hallisey. He’s the perfect target: people are already primed to hate him after Histrios and his father’s failed coup. His own people already hate him, his silly cousin aside. Inexplicably, he and Rheamaren were the sole survivors of the attack in Illyon, then he happened to be on the island the day of this attack, as well. Evidence is irrelevant; you know are Enforcers can plant that. The crime falling under Unity’s jurisdiction only makes that easier.”

“And if you fail to find Amos, you can blame his disappearance on Leandros, too,” Roman guessed.

Moira smiled, pleased with herself. “Precisely.”

“Why?” Roman asked. There was something in his expression Gareth hadn’t seen before: an upward tilt to his eyebrows, a wildness around his eyes. Desperation. “Is it just that you want control of the team?”

“That, and he insulted us. No one gets away with that.”

Gareth listened for more, but at that moment, a door opened further down the alley, warm light from the café spilling out over the pavement. Before whoever opened it could step out, Gareth fled.

On the other side of the fence, Roman watched Gareth’s distinct patent leather shoes turn and leave. Slowly, he stood, laying his hands on the table as he did. He looked down at this Magistrate, so very like every Magistrate that came before her. “Hear this, then,” he began. “I think you’re a pathetic, slimy piece of shit. You’re also far stupider than you seem to realize — you haven’t even figured out your biggest mistake yet, Magistrate. Who do you think I am?”

Moira puffed up indignantly at the insults, anger turning her face red. “How should I know? You wouldn’t answer my—”

“You don’t need me to tell you. There’s only one Enforcer who could have escaped Unity, only one who could have faked his own death. Who am I, Magistrate?”

Now, Moira had gone pale, all the color drained from her face. “That’s not possible.”

“What is the meaning of madness, Magistrate? Is it not seeing the world as it is? Rejecting the reality that’s in front of your own eyes? If so, then maybe I’m not the mad one between us. Prove me wrong. Say my name.”

“You —” Moira breathed.

“I'll give you a hint. Your sharpshooter on the roof – it's Evelyne Corscia, isn't it? Do you know who trained her to shoot so well?"

“Egil,” Moira breathed.

Roman clapped politely. “Very good, Magistrate! And who am I?"

"Egil."

"Now that you know that, tell me: who is my closest friend in this world?”

Moira gripped the arm of her chair until her knuckles turned white. “Leandros Nochdvor. But he—”

“I didn’t ask for your commentary,” Roman interrupted. “And I won’t let you succeed in framing him. Oh, by the way,” he said, tone brightening as he turned to leave, “Your brother overheard this whole conversation through the fence. I know he’s struck up quite the friendship with Leandros; I’d wager Leandros knows all about your little plan by tomorrow. Would you like to take that bet?”

“That’s not possibl—”

Roman tutted. “I guess there really is no reasoning with madness. You have a nice night, Magistrate,” he said, turning and walking away before Moira could speak even one more word.

Lots going on in this chapter! We've got existential crises, deity lore, and big identity reveals! Which was your favorite part?

Also, sorry for all the starts and stops with Fractured Magic lately! I made this announcement on bluesky and in the FM discord server as well – I depend on having downtime at my day job to be able to keep up with The Serial Thing, but my day job has been absolute hell lately. I'm hoping that it'll quiet down soon, but my schedule may be a bit erratic until then. Thank you for your patience.

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