Fractured Magic: Chapter Eleven

If the rest of Unity’s island was merely showy, its theater was ostentatious, opalescent. Its red carpets, its crystal chandeliers, its painted ceilings — it was all simply too much. Unity had poured money into every inch of this place, so it was funny how often Gareth forgot it existed. In his defense, his early autumn visits never overlapped with Gallontea's late spring theatrical season. Tonight's show was a special occasion, a treat for Unity's conferences. It was the event of the season, and Gareth hoped it would start soon. He could only pretend to fix his necktie so many times, avoiding the searching looks Moira kept giving him.

Finally, though, as the stewards went around dimming lights, she had enough. She sat forward in her seat, the crinkling of her evening gown loud in the Ranulfs' private theater box. “Gareth, are you going to tell me how the meeting went, or not?” she asked.

“We're not supposed to discuss it with anyone outside the team,” Gareth said, as if he hadn't given Isobel a line-by-line recount as soon as she'd returned from her publisher's. His wife didn’t count. Obviously.

“Discuss what?” Gareth and Moira's half-brother asked from the seat behind them. A self-declared “self-made man,” Aldous ran several successful businesses in the north, but like a child he still hated when his much-older siblings spent time together without him. When he'd learned Gareth was in town, he'd taken the first train south to join them.

“I am clearly the exception,” Moira said, ignoring Aldous.

“Yes, well, maybe I don't feel like discussing anything with you,” Gareth said, “Not unless it's about my missing neighbors.”

“For the hundredth time, I don't know what you expect me to do about that. We can't control what Gallontea does with its police.”

On Gareth's other side, Isobel made a disgusted noise and leaned forward until she could glare at Moira. “Do you think we're idiots, Moira? The Magistrates have pardoning powers. You could help those poor kids, you're simply choosing not to.”

Gareth nodded along with his wife. After he'd told Isobel about the orinians, they'd spent all afternoon riding around looking for Maebhe with no luck. Gareth feared the police had gotten to her — or worse.

“Isobel,” Moira sighed, but Isobel cut her off.

“I really don't want to hear another word. Not unless it's a promise to do better.”

Eyes wide, Aldous sat back in his seat, no longer wanting anything to do with the conversation. Gareth bit back a smile, much as he wanted to cheer for his wife. “This comes as no surprise, I’m sure, but I agree with Isobel,” he said. “This goes beyond your usual apathy into plain cruelty, Moira. They're only tourists. Show some compassion.”

“Gareth,” Moira began again, but again, Isobel shushed her.

“The show’s about to begin,” Isobel said.

Sure enough, down below, the audience quieted as the orchestra struck up and the curtain lifted, revealing a bearded man in an antiquated costume on the stage.

“Gareth,” Moira whispered, “If these orinians really mean so much to you, I promise to look into it.”

Gareth looked at his sister, surprised. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a complaint of his seriously. “Thank you, Moira. I would appreciate that.”

Though she didn't look pleased about it, Moira nodded and settled back to watch the show. It was another Gareth knew, though there was no Egil in this one. It told the story of a girl named Edith Albert, the youngest daughter of a Unity Representative. Over a century ago, Edith had learned of a plot to assassinate a Magistrate — Gareth's ancestor, in fact. As she worked to stop it, the goddess Ellaes came to her in a vision, directing her path. But strangely, the story wasn't the only thing Gareth knew; he recognized the actress playing Edith as the young woman that had played the Oracle of Damael at the festival. When he looked closer, he recognized several of the actors: the young prince was now Edith's earnest suitor, Egil the endangered Magistrate. If it was the same troupe, he wondered if Mr. Hallisey was around, if he was in the show. He didn't show up in the first act, at least, though Gareth forgot to watch for him after a while. He'd never seen the show performed so passionately, and he lost himself in it.

When the lights went up to cue intermission, he blinked, slowly dragging himself out of the world of the story. Before Moira could ask him again about the team meeting, he stood and loudly excused himself for the restroom, then spent the intermission wandering Unity's decadent halls. Over his head, heavenly scenes of the Guardians and their champions had been painted along the high ceilings. Gold sconces with flickering lights lined the walls beneath paneled mirrors, and Gareth avoided meeting his own bruised eyes in his reflection.

“This place...it's a bit tasteless, don't you think?” asked a familiar voice. Gareth saw the speaker in the mirror first, all feline grace and sharp angles. He turned and offered his new companion a bow, one that was returned with far more grace.

“Compared to the Royal Palace in Alfheimr, I'm sure it must be,” Gareth said.

Leandros Nochdvor wrinkled his nose, a small, barely-there expression. “The Palace is beautiful,” Leandros agreed, but there was no warmth in it. “Your eye is already looking better.”

“I have my wife's makeup and skilled hand to thank for that.”

“Ah, I thought — I forgot how slowly you sapiens heal.”

Gareth chucked. “I'll be bruised all the way to Illyon, most likely. What do you think of the show so far?”

“I’d debated staying home, but it makes me glad I chose to come out,” Leandros said. Sensing Gareth’s curiosity, he explained, “Thanks to those damned papers, reporters and busybodies have been harassing me all day. I can barely leave my hotel.”

Now that he mentioned it, Gareth felt the eyes on his back, heard the hiss of whispers pointed in their direction. He wondered how this would affect the gossip, the bereaved Prince Nochdvor greeting the Magistrate's brother like a good friend. He tutted. “People can be so entitled.”

“That, at least, is something I'm used to. My uncle is a King, my mother a prima donna, my father a villain. People have always felt entitled to my time and secrets simply because they find me interesting.”

“Is that why you’ve been, ah...out of the public eye for so long?” Gareth ventured. It was the closest he’d come to asking about Histrios, and it was as close as his courage would currently allow.

Leandros regarded Gareth out of the corner of his eyes. “Why, Mr. Ranulf, when I spoke of busybodies, I didn’t realize I should count you among them.”

“I’m so sorry if I overstepped,” Gareth said quickly, only realizing afterward, but the faint quirk of Leandros’ lips, that the alfar was teasing him.

Leandros laughed. It was a startling sound, musical like a pair of chimes in the wind, and it reminded Gareth of the old alfar stories about dances on moors and streams of wild magic. He didn't think he'd ever heard an alfar laugh before. He must have stared too openly, because Leandros' expression quickly closed off, schooled back into something solemn and neutral.

“It’s fine,” he said. Gareth thought his voice sounded warmer than it had, though he still didn’t answer Gareth’s question, instead lowering his voice and saying, “I understand people’s curiosity, honestly. The world has changed with just one headline, and the people don’t even know enough to know if they should be afraid. I just wish they understood that I am, for all practical purposes, grieving.”

It was easy to forget in all the politics that Leandros had lost a beloved uncle. Gareth considered Leandros' clothing: even to an event like this, the alfar wore mostly black: it could only signify mourning. The strange thing, though, was that he didn't wear the plain, coarse fabrics of early-stage mourning. Instead, the lace and satin and silver incorporated into Leandros' suit implied an old loss. Gareth couldn't recall hearing of any deaths in the Alfheimr royal family in recent years. He wondered who Leandros really mourned for, because it didn't seem to be the king.

“By the way, were you able to warn your neighbors?” Leandros asked.

Gareth winced. “Yes, but not soon enough. The Gallontean Police came for them.”

Leandros swore, the crass language surprising Gareth. “Shit. I should’ve known they’d — shit. I’m sorry, Mr. Ranulf.”

“Whatever for?”

“I should have helped you. I could have prevented this.”

“Nonsense. If I couldn’t do anything to stop them, you wouldn’t have been able to, either,” Gareth said. When Leandros met Gareth’s gaze, Gareth saw fury — the same fury he'd seen in Leandros back at the Magistrates' chambers. But then Leandros blinked and it was gone. He was ice again. “Maybe you’re right. Apologies for my outburst, Mr. Ranulf.”

Gareth opened his mouth to wave him off, but then a bell rang, signaling the end of intermission. While the surrounding crowds returned to their seats, Leandros hesitated. “Would you care to get drinks after this? I'd like to discuss this further.”

Maybe it did make him a busybody, but Gareth had never been one to turn down an opportunity to study an interesting personality. And for a chance to potentially ask about Egil, too, how could he refuse? “I’d love to.”

The two men walked back to the upper floors of the theater together, Leandros parting crowds with only a look. It was a peculiar effect to witness: Gareth was used to Moira’s bodyguards forcing a way forward, but with Leandros, it was effortless. Gareth doubted the alfar even realized he was doing it. Leandros Nochdvor simply existed on a plane all his own, like the ones in his way were merely ghosts, he the only real thing in this theater. He certainly cut a striking figure, in his black damask waistcoat and slim, high-waisted trousers, the peak of fashion with a silhouette to match, but his command of attention went beyond that. Maybe it was inherited from his uncle, or maybe it came from his distinguished mother. Maybe it was something all his own.

Content with the promise of picking the alfar apart later, Gareth returned to his box alone, arriving just as the curtains lifted. The second act was even better than the first. As with the other show, the Webhon Players masterfully danced the line between tragedy and comedy; Gareth cried one moment and cried from laughter the next. And the performance only got more elaborate as the story progressed, particularly after Ellaes’ first appearance, the Players incorporating stage tricks like metallurgy to make it more real. Gareth cried again when it was over, not because it was sad, but simply because it was over.

Isobel hung on his arm afterward, staunchly ignoring Moira and leading him out of the box and down the stairs. Gareth searched for Leandros among the crowd, and it was only a prickling sensation at the back of his neck that made him turn around. He didn’t find Leandros there. What he found instead was another familiar face, a casual figure leaning against the far stage doors. The line of his body was tense, his muscles coiled and his wary gaze on the crowd. He started in surprise when his eyes met Gareth's.

Without thinking, Gareth took Isobel's hand and dragged her over, moving against the crowd. “Mr. Hallisey!” he called.

Roman responded with a bright smile and a lazy wave, and Gareth whispered to Isobel as they drew closer. “Do you remember him from the festival yesterday? He's the one who saved me last night. Roman Hallisey's his name.”

“What a strange coincidence,” Isobel said.

“It is,” Gareth agreed before adding, louder, “Hello, Mr. Hallisey!”

“Mr. Ranulf,” Roman greeted as they approached, his expression unreadable. “Given your troubles yesterday, I hadn't expected to see you here tonight. How's your eye?”

Gareth went to touch his cheek, a self-conscious habit he'd picked up in the last twenty-four hours, but Isobel intercepted his hand and twined their fingers together. “Could be worse. The swelling's down considerably.”

“I can see that. And this must be the beautiful Mrs. Ranulf,” Roman said, extending a hand. When Isobel offered her own, Roman raised it to his lips and kissed it, his dark curls falling into his eyes. Straightening up, he said, “Your husband talks about you a lot when he's drugged, did you know that?”

“I wasn't aware. I can't say I've ever drugged him.”

Roman laughed. “Well, even for all his poetic waxing, he doesn't do you justice.”

“Aren't you cute,” Isobel said, but the considering, almost wary look she gave him didn't match the tone of her words. When Roman's gaze again darted over the crowd, she asked, “Are you waiting for someone?”

Roman’s attention snapped back to her, her thoughtful look now mirrored on his own face. He looked her up and down, not so quick to dismiss her, this time. “Not at all,” he said with a polite smile. “Crowds just make me nervous.”

“But you did such a good job engaging with the festival crowd yesterday,” Isobel pushed. Gareth frowned, watching the back and forth.

“I’m touched you think so. I was just doing a favor for the troupe leader; it’s not my usual scene, I can promise you,” Roman said. He lit up, then, and a mischievous grin slipped onto his face. “Speaking of scenes, did you like the show? How would you two like to see something exciting?”

Gareth opened his mouth to decline, but before he could, Isobel said, “I can’t speak for my husband, but now you have me curious.” Roman nodded back at the stage door and opened it for them with a flourish.

“Are we allowed back there?” Gareth asked doubtfully.

“If you’re with me, sure. I want to introduce you to someone.”

Roman ushered them through the door. Unlike the rest of the theatre, the backstage was messy and dark, the Webhon Players already caught up in post-show cleanup. People in dark clothing hurried back and forth carrying crates and set pieces, a frantic dance Gareth and Isobel were careful to avoid. Roman led them down a short flight of steps, stopping abruptly at the bottom and knocking on an unadorned door. A moment later, it opened to reveal the show's star, the young actress that played Edith. She threw her arms around Roman.

“What did you think?” she asked, cutting off with a squeal and a laugh when Roman picked her up and gave her a twirl.

“Absolutely enchanting, Dinara! You stole the show.”

Dinara laughed and pulled back from the embrace, finally noticing the Ranulfs. “Oh, hello,” she said breathlessly. “Roman, who are your friends?”

“Di, meet Gareth and Isobel Ranulf. Gareth, Isobel, this is Dinara Condeh.”

“It's a pleasure, Ms. Condeh,” Gareth said, enthusiastically shaking Dinara's hand. “Wonderful show. Your performance was so moving I nearly cried.”

“Liar. You did cry,” Isobel said.

Dinara tried to hide a laugh. “Thank you! Come in you, won't you?”

Inside the dressing room, Edith's various gowns lined one wall, numerous bouquets of flowers another. She dropped into her seat, regaling hem all with a costume mishap that happened in the second act. She was stunning, even out of costume and clearly exhausted, with deep brown skin and curls that fell to her chin. Contrary to her portrayal of Edith, her air was gentle. Gareth envied her and Roman. They had a youthful vivacity that had long escaped him — if he’d ever had it to begin with — and they were beautiful together. But it was different, seeing the young man in this setting — among friends, not in a darkened alley holding a bloodied sword. He seemed...diminished, somehow. Not as large as he had in the night.

His eyes were strange, serious when nothing else about him seemed to be. He smiled, laughed, chatted, and all the while, his eyes stayed cold.

“We're all going out to celebrate,” Dinara said. “You two should come with.”

“Would we be overdressed?” Gareth asked.

“Half the Players will be in costume,” Roman assured him. “If anyone's going to stand out, it won't be you. Come, it'll be fun. There'll be music and drinking and dancing.”

Isobel squeezed Gareth's hand. The excitement in her eyes was obvious. “I told the governess not to expect us back until late,” she told him.

Unable to deny his wife anything, he said, “We'd be happy to join you, then.”

Roman answered with a bright, boyish smile, different from the forced one he'd used upstairs. This one lit up the room. “That's the spirit, Gareth! Wait 'till you see how the Webhon Players party. It's the only reason I'm still traveling with them, to tell the truth.”

Dinara scoffed and elbowed Roman, making him laugh. There was something about Roman, some unidentifiable quality that made Gareth want to earn more of those laughs. “I just have to go find a friend, first. I need to cancel our plans.”

Gareth would have plenty of time to talk to Leandros in the coming weeks, he reasoned. Roman and Dinara, though, he may never see again. The Rinehart Festival was ending soon, and the Players would be gone from Gallontea. And they were both so interesting.

“Bring them along!” Dinara said, adding, “If they're fun.”

“I don't know him well, but I believe he could be. And I'm sure he'd be happy not to stand out for an evening — his name is Leandros Nochdvor.”

“Not him,” Roman said firmly, surprising everyone. The smile was gone from his face. “Don't invite him.”

Gareth stared at Roman, taken aback by the sudden chill. Dinara frowned as well. Under the weight of their stares, Roman shook himself, his dark expression clearing into something carefully — intentionally — innocent. “I mean, he's from Alfheimr, isn't he? You know how they are there. No fun. And he's...he's royalty over there, isn't he? I just don't think anywhere we go will be up to his standards.”

Dinara’s brows furrowed further, but if she thought Roman was hiding something — as Gareth did — she didn’t comment. Gareth, too, decided not to push, even if this only made him more curious about the man. He remembered the way Roman reacted when he’d mentioned the prince at the festival yesterday, too. “I understand. I do need to find him and reschedule, though.”

“I’ll catch up with you outside, then,” Roman said. He smiled and kissed Dinara on the cheek, but his eyes had gone even colder. “I think I left something at my seat.”

Though there were shared looks, nobody commented as he slipped away. Dinara went with Isobel and Gareth to look for Leandros, watching him curiously as Gareth explained the situation; Leandros understood, as Gareth knew he would, but made Gareth promise to get drinks with him before they left Gallontea. And as promised, Roman caught up with them just as they were about to cross onto the bridge. A short, cheerful woman with an orange pixie cut led the group — about twenty or so in total — to a nondescript tavern with a sign of a snarling wolf hanging above their door. Music and laughter drifted out to the street, and a warm glow streaming out the windows greeted them.

“Welcome,” the woman said, gesturing grandly, “To the Hungry Hound.”

A hound, then. Not a wolf.

The Hungry Hound was the kind of place Gareth might read about in a book: the quintessential pub, with a crackling fire, the smell of garlic and spices in the air, and music drifting gently over from the fiddler in the corner. The short woman — Gemma, he heard the Players call her — had reserved half the room for the Players, and bought off the fiddler as well.

They crammed into booths and around tables, ordering drinks and dishes to share. As the evening progressed and the drinks flowed, they got the fiddler to play a lively tune and moved the tables to the sides of the room to make space for dancing. Those that didn’t dance turned to telling stories — unfortunately for Gareth, that involved a few wildly incorrect Egil stories, but he reined himself in from correcting anyone. Mostly.

“That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard,” he’d told one of the Players early into the evening. “Everyone knows Egil hated Unity. He opposed them at every turn.”

“That was after he left them. He worked for them first. Haven't you ever heard of the Hound of Unity?” the man asked.

“The Hound of Unity is a myth. I’ve studied Egil for ten years and I’ve never found anything connecting him to that character,” Gareth said, meeting the Players’ challenging scowl with one of his own.

Roman rolled his eyes and slid out of the booth, holding a hand out to Dinara to pull her up after him. “And with that, I’m going to dance.”

“He doesn’t like Egil stories,” Dinara told Gareth apologetically. “Don’t ask me why. He doesn’t tell.”

Isobel couldn’t drink because of the pregnancy, so Gareth didn’t either. They danced a few songs but spent the rest of their evening enjoying the company of these strange and interesting people. Roman and Dinara spent much longer on the dance floor, though as the evening wore on and they both had more to drink, their movements could be described less as dancing and more as something that wouldn’t be tolerated in Gareth’s usual sort of establishment.

Roman never crossed the line into drunk, though. Gareth was watching for it, hoping to even the score after Roman had seen him so high on painkillers the night before. Roman drank as much as the rest, but aside from his flushed cheeks and boundless energy, it barely seemed to touch him. Between dances, he told a few stories of his own — fantastic personal adventures that Gareth had trouble believing — and listened with rapt attention to others’. Even Gareth’s, which Gareth didn’t feel deserved such enthusiasm. Roman made sure the Ranulfs were always included in conversations, that they felt like old friends, and demanded that everyone have just as much fun as he was having.

Then a fight broke out between one of the Players and another patron, and Roman shed this enthusiasm like a mask. He stepped between them, stopping the fight so quickly Gareth wouldn’t have believed his eyes if he hadn’t been sober. When both parties backed down, Roman slipped the mask back on and returned to Dinara’s arms. If Gareth had thought this evening would give him insights into Roman Hallisey’s mysteries, he’d been wrong. All he had were more questions.

Even so, he couldn’t remember having so much fun in his life. In the early hours of the morning, he swept Isobel off her feet and carried her up into the cab bed, where she settled happily against his side with a sigh, her heels clutched in her hands. They both hummed their own clashing melodies under their breaths, against the steady beat of horse hooves and carriage wheels, and thought of things more pleasant than missing kings and Gareth’s upcoming departure.

Thank you for reading! I really love Isobel's role in this chapter; she's such a sharp, observant character, and this is really where we start to see it.

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