"Wait. Light?" Nestor said, finally catching what his host had said.
"Yes. There are some parts of this procedure where I'll have to employ greater clarity of vision."
Nestor froze. How did he know about Clarity? That was one of the most closely guarded secrets of the Granite Order, reserved for only the most accomplished mages, and necessarily so. Why, if the common granite mage knew that he could regain his natural sight using magic...
Had Cao Tzu been a granite in the Highest's employ at one time? Surely Nestor would've remembered him from the Guard, either as his superior or as his subordinate. His eyes cut back to Jaeda, but she didn't seem the least bit surprised by the revelation. Again, he wondered about the past that he and Jaeda obviously shared.
"Now hold still," Jaeda urged, gently tilting his head forward. "I want you to focus on me, alright? Look into my eyes."
Nestor did, though it was with a confusing mixture of budding love and growing mistrust. Who was she?
"Alright, we're about to begin. Nestor, I want you to hold as still as you can. Jaeda," Cao Tzu said, his voice taking a keen edge of warning. "Whatever you do, do not touch him during the procedure. He is protected from the shackle by the shackle. Any mana surges I cause will dissipate into the mana field that surrounds him. If you are in contact with that field..."
"Right," she answered.
"Now then, hand me that... No, not that one, the one next to it." Jaeda's hand went to the tray table that stood beside the chair, just outside of Nestor's field of vision.
He sat in silence while Cao Tzu worked. He could only imagine what the mage was doing behind him, but every so often, Cao Tzu's hand slipped, poking him with some apparatus or another.
"See, the trick to these things is understanding the craftsman," he said as he worked, poking Nestor again. He began to wonder if Cao Tzu was doing it on purpose. "You can tell by the score marks in the bracket... Jaeda, look here. See that? You can tell by those marks that the artisan was under a certain amount of stress at the time of this crafting. That being the case, look here at the locking mechanism." He paused in his dissertation, presumably to show Jaeda what he was talking about. Nestor bit his lip in growing frustration. They were attempting to unlock a device that, if opened incorrectly, could kill him, and his supposed savior was using it as a teaching moment!
"Ah!" he heard Jaeda gasp. "So if her hands were even the slightest bit unstable, she wouldn't want the actual latch to go here..." Pause. "But here instead." Another pause.
"Yes, exactly," Cao Tzu affirmed. "See, each artisan---"
"Excuse me," Nestor interrupted. "But can we please focus on the task at hand? I'd just as soon not be your seventh failure."
"Quite right," the other agreed. "Though I wouldn't be too worried. I think I've accounted for all the lifestyle minutia that would affect the artisan's crafting, and I'm certain the temporal quanta is roughly similar..."
"Temporal quanta?"
"Little changes between this time and last time."
"Last time? What are you talking about?"
Cao Tzu sighed. "I'm about to release the lock. Hold still. This might sting a bit."
Nestor braced himself, hands gripping the cushioned armrests against whatever pain he might experience. He heard a very faint click, and he jumped... but he felt nothing as the shackle went slack on his neck. He sighed his relief as Cao Tzu touched the shackle to remove it.
And Nestor's whole body convulsed as if his very bones were filled with lightning. But it didn't last long. Blessedly, he slipped into oblivion before he could scream.
Chapter 4
When Caravan broke camp shortly after breakfast, its people scattered like leaves in an autumn breeze. Those few with wagons that could manage the crowded streets of Bastion headed south toward the city, while the rest made their way north along the highroad to Vulture Point, where the Cause's ships waited at anchor to carry them to the southern shores of Bastion's harbor, near the Camp of the Unmarked.
As afternoon bled into evening, the tent poles of Caravan started to rise on the Camp's western parade grounds. Though most of Caravan had yet to arrive from Vulture Point, the first streets of the new rebel village were already evident. The sun was touching the Sea of Ysre when Jaren left the campsite he'd claimed for his own and set out along those proto-streets with purpose, barking orders as he passed.
Well, "barking orders" was all in how one looked at it. He liked to think that he was barking orders, but if he were honest with himself, it was probably closer to polite requests of meager direction, softened further with "if you please".
Not that the village of rebels needed much direction. Even with most of the Cause still en route, Jaren was hard-pressed to find any delineation between Caravan of old, Wayfarer's Rest, Red Wagon, and the half-dozen or so other villages that Caravan had absorbed over the past few weeks. And now he was witnessing the same process start all over again with the Unmarked, the once-soldiers for the Highest throwing in with their rebel brethren to raise the tent city, with nothing to distinguish them but the armor that they wore. It really did the heart good to see just how close people could be, if given a common goal to strive for.
Few Caravanites had been able to bring their wheeled cabins with them when they first loaded the ships north of Scholar's Ford -- only the most necessary ones, like the smithies with their forges built into the very sides of their homes. Most had just packed their essentials and left the rest at the edge of Aeden's Garden. It made transport much easier, to be sure, but it gave the once-garish rebel camp a decidedly severe color. They looked more like refugees than rebels.
Marissa's site -- complete with a certain one-eyed mage -- was among the first that Jaren had found, along with Master Seti's forge. The emerald had committed their locations to memory, as they might be in the Bastion area for a little while yet. He made his way down a number of semi-straight paths, marking other canvas homes as he went, and noted how few cook fires had been lit. Apparently, a massive movement of one's life and belongings was hardly enough to keep the rebels of the Cause from tasting the varied offerings of the Festival of Harvest. And Jaren didn't blame them. He had a mind to head into town himself before long.
He rounded a plot claimed by the Brothers Fletcher and finally found the tent that he'd been looking for -- a largish one, bearing regal colors. A couple men were hammering in the final guy stakes as he approached.
Good, he thought, sighing his relief. Somebody helped her set up. One less thing for her to worry about.
"There you are, Green," Delana said cheerfully. Too cheerful by half, Jaren thought, but he simply smiled his reply. "Just finishing up," she remarked, nodding thankfully to the men who had helped her and now were departing. She commented casually, as if they'd done this a hundred times before.
Well, they had done this a hundred times before, but never without Reit. Jaren touched Emerald and looked into her. She was tired, worn, achy. Her heart beat much faster than usual, for all that she tried to appear calm. No, the differentness of this move wasn't lost on her, however she tried to hide it.
"Don't take that tone on my account," he told her.
Her beaming smile darkened slightly, and her lip trembled, but to her credit, she didn't break down. "You know, he always thought that he would be alone when he died." She barked a rough laugh, and cast a quick glance over her shoulder to the entrance of the tent. "Now he's dead and I still won't leave him alone."
He nodded, wishing vainly for words of comfort to impart. What could he say about something like this? He had no hope to offer.
Well, very little, anyway.
"Have you decided how you're going to... honor him?" he asked.
"We'll take him with us whenever we leave. There's nothing else for it." What remained of her smile turned decidedly cold, and her lip curled slightly in grim determination. "I won't bury him in this Crafter-forsaken soil. It's already soaked up enough of his life. I'll not give it his death as well."
> "What do you have in mind?"
She was thoughtful for a moment, then said, "The Colonnade outside of Aitaxen."
"King Titus' tomb," Jaren said appreciatively. "Most fitting."
"I thought so, anyway."
Jaren smiled thinly, and cast vainly about for something else to say. The small talk was over far too quickly for his liking. He'd hoped to soften her up a bit before---
"Look," she said, her violet eyes flashing brilliantly, if briefly. "I know you want to see him. Your head has been a thunderstorm since last night, so it's obvious that something is on your mind. Something to do with... him. But now is not the time. Sorry to make you chase the kharn around the millpond..." she paused to scrub away a disobedient tear. "Too soon."
"Too soon," he echoed with a sigh. Whether that sigh was for her pain or his frustration, he couldn't say.
* * *
The small talk was over far too quickly for Delana's liking. Jaren offered a few more empty platitudes, but eventually, he left, and took the blessing of his presence with him. When Delana turned around and reentered her tent, she did so alone.
"Jaren stopped by," Delana said, speaking to the empty space as if Reit would sit up in it and respond.
But he just lay there. Cold. Lifeless. Too lifeless, even for the dead.
"He wanted to see you," she continued, approaching the wagon where her husband lay in repose, his hands folded neatly over his chest, his face solemn, peaceful. "I told him to come back."
She dragged her fingers across his still body, her other hand toying with the ring she wore around her neck. She could feel every facet of the gem beneath her fingers, could see the dull emerald glint in her mind without laying eyes on it. The ring had been an obsession of hers ever since it had fallen into her hands, the source of many a sleepless night spent trying to unlock its secrets. She should have told Reit about the ring years ago. She should have told him everything.
"I know what Jaren wants," she continued, speaking right through the catch in her voice, the tears in her tone, the run of her nose. Her weakness wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest while he were alive. Why should it bother her now that he was... gone?
But weakness led to bitterness, and bitterness to shame. "He wants to examine you," said Delana, well and truly sobbing now. Her husband's body was almost completely obscured by hot tears, the residual violet and dirty brown auras obscured with it. "I'm sure he saw what I see, but even if he looks closer, he won't know what it means. Not like I do."
Her dragging fingertips came to rest in the center of his chest, over the hole that she knew gaped beneath the covering of his armor. Even through the black leather of his breastplate, the granite aura glowed sickeningly, separate but linked to the brown magics that encompassed the rest of his body. The aura was elliptical, irregular, just large enough for a man's heart to fit in... or to be pulled out of.
And it wasn't fading as it should. None of the auras were. Worse still, his body showed no evidence of death. All the usual signs, the tiny sparks of life that fed on death, were absent. It was as if Reit simply did not exist, except for the magic that was now an inseparable part of him. Ever since the moment he fell, she had memorized every feature, every bit of minutia about him. And the magics were as fresh upon his body now as they had been the day before, the moment they'd slain him.
As the thought came to her unbidden, her shame reached its full. He couldn't move on. His soul couldn't shake free of his body. It wasn't that it was too early for his spirit to manifest, to hover over his body like a cloud. It was as if everything was frozen in place. And she was certain she was the cause of it.
She, a mistress of Energy, had somehow trapped Reit's energies within a lifeless shell. She had no idea how, or why, but the fault was hers. There would be no peace in the Crafter's embrace. Not for him. Not for her.
The sound of wailing haunted her on into the night. It was a long time before she realized that the wailing was hers. And she didn't care.
* * *
Retzu heard that wail again, and he looked over his shoulder toward where Caravan lay near the shoreline of the harbor. It had been following him ever since he left his campsite, rising and falling like a wave in his ears. It was very faint now, almost indistinguishable against the backdrop of the dissonant sounds of celebration, but Retzu could still hear it plainly.
Delana. She was mourning Reit, in the only way she knew how. Quite possibly, the only way that was appropriate.
Retzu paused in his step, halfway to Bastion's southern gate, and halfway to her. He could go back, to see after his brother's wife and let her see after her husband's twin. He could pass the night in grief, and in the company of those he cared for. That would be the right thing to do, anyway. He set one foot back toward the camp when...
"Retzu!" came a voice entirely too familiar -- and too old -- to be as festive as it was.
"Milord mage," the assassin replied, turning to nod at an obviously... festive... Menkal, calling from Bastion's gates with arms high and wide. "You just now getting here?"
"Yes. Well, no. I mean, I'm from here, so ye--err, no. I'm just now getting here, just not getting here. Not just," the sapphire said, throwing an arm around Retzu's shoulder and pulling him close. The smell of stale mead hit Retzu full in the face as the mage whispered none too quietly, "I've been with the dragons all day! Shhhhhhh!"
"I'm sure the people already know they're here," Retzu reminded him. "They're big. Kinda hard to miss."
"Yeah, but they don't know that I know them, ya know." The sapphire paused, staring wide-eyed through his spectacles at some image that only he could see. "They don't know that I know them! Why... that makes me the most uniquest person on this whole island. Imagine the possibilities! Men twice my size, quaking in fear, and ladies---"
"Yeah, that's amazing, mate," Retzu said, cutting him off in mid-slur, deftly turning the drunken sapphire toward Caravan. "You know who you need to tell all this to? Jaren. He's a country boy, ya see. I'm sure he'd love to hear all about it. Broaden his horizons a bit, yeah?"
Menkal grinned sloppily and adjusted his spectacles on his face, leaving them even more cockeyed than they were before. "Boy, I could spin him a yarn about this place and Festivals past. You know, I'm from here, lad..."
"So I've heard. Why don't you go tell him all about it. Off you go..."
Retzu gave the sapphire a gentle shove toward Caravan, and the old man staggered off without another word, as if Retzu had already slipped his mind. He wondered a moment longer if he ought not follow the old man back to camp, to make sure he didn't get into any trouble. He was a mage, sure enough, but he was old, and obviously not in his best mind. It was easy to feel a twinge responsible for him. And then there was Delana...
But the scent of roasted corn and stale beer and spent fireworks wafted past him, and the sounds of revelry and mirth and random violence wormed their way into his ears. Distraction. Wanton distraction. A little drink, a little sport -- just what a bloke like him needed to take his mind off things.
Retzu looked once more to the doddering old man, and to the camp beyond him. He sighed, then turned north toward the gate, and to the frivolities that Harvest had to offer. Delana -- the whole of Caravan -- needed a comfort that Retzu couldn't give. Best let his sister-in-law find her own comforts, and let Retzu find his.
* * *
Sal yawned into his fist, a light mist billowing out around it. Today might be Long Harvest, but the day before had been long enough on its own.
The morning dawned a bit cooler than it had the past couple days, but that didn't deter the Bastionites from their festivities in the least. The Long Harvest and its extra Festival day only came around once every four years, and the celebrants were bound and determined to make the most of it.
Sal was on patrol well before the sun started glinting off of Mount Ysre's snowcap. He wore his full Rank armor -- as did the rest of the Unmarked at his command -- with his doeskin-hilted katana strapped to h
is back. The rebels weren't really "undercover" anymore. There was no danger of being "discovered" per se, because those who posed the greatest threat to the rebels already knew. But the Rank armor was a look that the people were used to, and the armor remained practical, even if the advertising was a bit off. He saw no need to rock the boat until and unless it was necessary.
He also maintained a connection to the emerald soulgem, though that too was more for practical purposes than subterfuge. Those who mattered already knew who he was. Those who didn't likely wouldn't see the importance of him being the Prism. But even the most ignorant farmer could see that Diamond wasn't one of the usual Tiles, so it didn't serve his purposes to relax his guard too much. So he held onto Emerald, and stood ready for a fight that was always as close as the nearest drunk.
His patrols carried him through the food courts and grocers, the menageries and the troupes. The mouthwatering scent of roasted meats mixed with the gagging odor of meat that was unfortunately very much alive. The various musicians played their tunes to their individual audiences, the resulting din both beautiful and jarringly dissonant. The chaos of it all sent cheers and jeers out into the morning as Festival goers had their merriment. That in itself was almost worth the price of admission for Sal. There was a new wonder around every corner, each more entertaining than the last. If only...
"There you are," came a pleased exclamation from behind him. "I've been looking all over for you."
"Marissa, I was just thinking about you," he said with a wide smile, kissing her briefly but fully. "Whatcha hunting me down for? It's barely sun-up, and there's a whole lot of Festival to enjoy, even this early."
"Who am I going to enjoy it with? My declared is off looking for ruffians to rough up."
Sal laughed. "Hang on a minute. Let me check in."
Closing his eyes and shielding them against onlookers, he touched Sapphire, and spoke to the wind. Patrys?
Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2) Page 7
