Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  "Just... give him some time. Let me handle him."

  He felt rather awkward, defending his sen'sia -- a gold-hilted shol'tuk, at that -- from his delicate flower of a girlfriend, but he knew where Retzu was coming from. Sal had lost family, and brothers in arms, so he knew emptiness when he saw it. Top that with a healthy dose of duty for a guy whose sole duty had always been to himself and to his family. To lose that family, and then have the full weight of his family's obligations fall on his shoulders... Sal could just imagine the helplessness Retzu must've been feeling, the inadequacy.

  Marissa glowered at him, arms folded under her breasts, eyebrow quirked with a skepticism that Sal actually found quite attractive on the redhead. Her beauty really struck him at the oddest moments, sometimes. He smiled at the thought. Marissa's severe look faltered. She fought valiantly to maintain her scowl, but in spite of her best efforts, it softened into a reluctant grin.

  "Fine," she said. "But if it happens again, his hide is mine. I've got a whole box full of melee jewelry that I've been looking for an excuse to get reacquainted with."

  "Understood," he said. "Let's go find Jaren."

  Together, the two turned toward the Camp of the Unmarked, and to Caravan beyond. As they entered the Camp, Sal garnered many of the same looks that he got in the Commons, ranging from wariness to anger to concern. Time and again, Sal shrugged off their alarm, offering nothing in the way of details, saying only that he'd had a rough morning.

  They found the emerald sitting by the firepit outside his tent, in close conference with the other two remaining Heads of Order, Senosh and Menkal. All three sat in stunned silence for a moment, and Sal readied himself for the peppering of questions he was sure to get -- the same one he'd been getting since running into Marissa.

  But the questions never came. Instead, they each reacted... oddly, almost as if they expected no different. Menkal deflated within himself. Jaren buried his face in one hand, fingers rubbing at his temples. And Senosh loosed a full-throated belly laugh, a incongruous blend of mirth and bitterness with a dash of red hot anger.

  Not quite the reactions he expected.

  "Well, that just about does it, don't it?" Senosh asked, still chuckling sardonically. "Retzu was the last drop of water we had. The well of rebellion, my friends, is dry."

  "Peace, Red," Menkal said gently, placing a weathered hand on the Mandiblean's meaty shoulder. "We don't know anything yet, so let's not jump to conclusions. When Eshira gets back..."

  "You're going to find him and talk sense into him?" asked Jaren, his voice colored with doubt. "Not going to happen. Even with a dragon. He's shol'tuk. You won't find him. And even if you do, he won't come back until he's good and ready. But I'll grant you, this all couldn't come at a worse time for the Cause. We just suffered a battle that I could hardly count as a win. Harvest has just ended. We have barely settled in, and Delana picks now to leave?" He sighed. "She should've known what this would do to him."

  "Maybe she did," Sal suggested. "Maybe that's why she did it -- to force his hand."

  "Idiotic move," Jaren mumbled under his breath.

  "Probably so, but complaining about it ain't gonna fix anything. We need some forward momentum."

  "He's right," Senosh agreed. "A lot of people saw Retzu this morning. They saw his worried search. They saw his explosion. Our people have questions, and the longer we wait to give them answers..."

  "But we don't have any to give them," Jaren protested.

  "Sure we do," countered Sal. "We give them the same answer we've been giving them since Reit died."

  Menkal nodded. "The Unmarked already follow Sal. And when Delana and Retzu were in the throes of grief over Reit, Caravan followed Jaren."

  "I'm no leader," the emerald argued.

  "Maybe not," Sal hedged, "but it didn't stop you before."

  "That's different."

  "How? How is it different? Retzu and Delana couldn't function. They might as well not have been here. You stepped in to fill that gap."

  "Temporarily. All I needed was to wait it out."

  "That's all any leader does," Sal argued. "Any leader that cares about his people, anyway. He's only there until they no longer need him. I mean, look at Reit. Do you think he wanted to be el'Yatza?"

  "No, he didn't. He hated leadership! He hated living a life where people died for his decisions, for his mistakes. If he could've given it up, he would have."

  "Do you think he had plans to?"

  "Eventually, yes."

  "When?"

  "When the Highest was defeated, and his people were free to live as they saw fit rather than as someone else permitted them to."

  "So what was he doing in the mean time?"

  "He---" Jaren paused.

  "He was waiting it out," Sal finished for him.

  The emerald's mouth worked silently as he searched for a way to respond, his expression growing more desperate with each passing second. He looked like a caged animal who had finally noticed his bars.

  "We don't know that Retzu's gone for good," Sal said softly, hands on Jaren's shoulders. "He could come back tonight. Tomorrow." He paused and gave a hard look. "Never. We just don't know. But what we do know is that these people need us. Until we're relieved of duty, it's our job to man the post. You remember the day you guys put me on trial?"

  Jaren nodded. "The day you joined the Cause."

  "How did you introduce yourself at the trial."

  "I am Jaren Fiol, of Darsen's Way. I am the Head of the Emerald Order. I stand opposed to the Highest. I fight for el'Yatza."

  "Right. And how did Reit introduce himself?"

  "I am Reit Windon du'Nograh of Aitaxen," Jaren recited, his expression smoothing. Sal couldn't tell if it was defeat or acceptance dawning on the emerald, but he hoped it amounted to the same thing. "I am called el'Yatza, the Hand of the Crafter. I stand opposed to the Highest. I..."

  Sal nodded. "You stand opposed to the Highest. Just as el'Yatza did. Who did he fight for?"

  "He fought for his people."

  "And now el'Yatza is gone. So who do you fight for?"

  Jaren's eyes took on a far away look as he replied. "But I'm not el'Yatza."

  "Retzu said the same thing," Sal chuckled. "But don't you see? Reit wasn't el'Yatza either. Until he was. It wasn't a title or a job that he aspired to -- it was a God-given calling."

  "Crafter-given," Jaren corrected absently.

  "Whatever."

  A meager audience had gathered to watch the discussion -- only five people or so, but more than enough to either fuel the rumors or start new ones -- so Jaren charged them to spread word that they would be addressing Caravan at High Sun. Following the emerald's cue, Sal reached out to Sapphire and wielded.

  Frasyr.

  Sir?

  Gather the Unmarked that are not on duty. We're addressing Caravan at High Sun, and I want the Unmarked to be here. I want a show of solidarity with the rest of the Cause. Caravan and the Unmarked are not two separate rebel factions. We're one, and we need to start acting like it.

  Understood, sir. And by the way, I heard that you had your rear given to you?

  I got my butt handed to me, he corrected. If you're gonna use my slang, at least get it right. And I'm fine. Just get everybody here.

  * * *

  The breeze blew errant strands of hair from Retzu's face, but he barely noticed. The pebbles under him dug into his knees as he sat in shol'zo rah, but they were inconsequential. His eyes, trained forward though they were, occasionally caught sight of a dragon, minuscule with distance, doing wide, lazy loops above the aerie they were constructing out of the rubble of Caravan's fortress, but even the dragons were beyond his attention. None of it mattered to him, in this moment. He was centered. He was at peace. He was---

  Retzu? The sapphire embedded behind the assassin's ear vibrated as the magic-borne voice came through.

  He groaned within himself -- almost an hour at achieving peace, only to have it shattered. "Yes, Uncle
," he responded with a sigh.

  That Earthen Rank company has started to move out, boy... and they ain't headin' east.

  This startled Retzu. "But the ruby subcaptain you met..."

  Aye, lad. An' I done confirmed with him, an' he's still under orders to form up with his century for a march east come next week. Word is ye've got a regiment headed yer way.

  "Only a regiment? That's more an occupation force than a siege force. You're sitting on five times that number, and pointing the wrong way. Does the Highest have another rebellion to quell besides us?"

  Not a clue, lad.

  Retzu groaned again. Something was very wrong. He dreaded the idea of another major battle so soon, and a thousand-man army was more than enough cause to dread, but for the Highest to be sending five thousand Rank soldiers somewhere other than Bastion... something was definitely wrong. "Uncle, stay with that company. Get word to Duffer to let me know if anything changes in Schel Veylin, but I need to know what the Highest is doing with those men."

  Aye, son. I'll let ye know somethin' soon's I know meself. The sapphire shuddered once more as the connection died.

  Retzu grit his teeth. Fine time for Delana to dump the Cause in his lap, but there was nothing for it now. Retzu might not be the leader that the Cause needed, but he was all there was. Unless somebody stepped up, the Cause was at an end, and Reit will have died for nothing.

  He sighed ruefully as the weight of duty settled upon him. He shook his head, almost in disbelief that the Crafter would see fit to commit one such as him to this task.

  Death is redemptive, like the gold that frees the slave from bondage. His hilt's mantra echoed in his head, in his heart, admonishing him as he pushed himself to his feet. May it redeem me, he prayed, and started back down the mountain.

  Retzu retraced his steps westward, his feet flying as he leaned into his descent. All too soon, rolling plateau gave way to rocky passes, and trot gave way to gallop as the way grew steep. The magic of his leather boots softened every fall as surely as it strengthened his leaps, but even gemstone artifacts had their limitations, so he angled south along a more gentle slope.

  As he ran, the assassin's shol'tuk skills took effect, almost by instinct. The impossibly narrow path before him faded from view, instead becoming merely one part of a much broader view in his mind's eye. In this internal sight, Retzu could see not just his impending footfalls, but his surroundings as a whole -- the summit of Mount Ysre rising behind him, the improvised trail winding away before him, jagged mountain to the left, sheer drop-off to the right, loose gravel below, jutting outcroppings above. Every detail stood out in crisp relief. The shol'tuk adherent was one with his surroundings, flowing effortlessly from one treacherous footfall to the next.

  As the assassin flipped over a particularly wide crevasse, he spied the Granite Spire directly in his path, about a mile ahead and some five hundred feet below. I'm too far south, he thought.

  A quick glance to his right gave him the lay of the land. It was still rather steep -- scary steep, really -- but all his acrobatics left him feeling rather brazen. With a lunatic grin, he angled dead west.

  His speed picked up tremendously as the slope increased, and he found himself skipping and sliding on loose rock. Finally, with about a hundred feet remaining, he reached the limit of his control. Just as his footing failed him, he bore down to his hunkers and thrust himself out into the noonday air.

  Retzu stretched himself out to full length as he sailed into the sunlit void, arms spread out to his sides. He was a bird of prey, bearing down on the world as if it were a mouse. He cackled madly. Let the Highest send his armies. Let the tyrant do his worst. The Crafter would have His way anyway, in His time, whatever Retzu chose.

  As he arched toward the ground, he tucked his knees to his chest and rolled. At the last possible moment, he thrust his legs out. His feet tapped the earth lightly, smoothly, and he continued his sprint toward Caravan unabated.

  In its way, the forested floor was nearly as fraught with peril as the mountainside was, peppered with badger dens and grass covered roots and the like. The going was slow -- well, as a shol'tuk might judge the word -- until he found his way to the south road out of Bastion. Hooking north, he made quick work of the remaining distance. The Camp of the Unmarked came into view as the Academy bells tolled the hour -- six peals for High Sun.

  A pair of sapphires stood posted at the southern entrance. Only two. This struck Retzu as odd, as off-duty Unmarked frequently entertained their on-duty brothers, helping them maintain even the most low-risk post with vigilance.

  "Subcaptain. Centurion," the assassin greeted them in turn.

  "Milord du'Nograh," the subcaptain replied easily, though he seemed somewhat surprised.

  "Just Retzu. What's wrong?"

  "N-nothing, milord," the sapphire assured. "It's just that... well, we been hearing rumors all morning---"

  "You need to get to the emerald Fiol's tent. Sorry, Flick," the centurion interjected, cutting off his fellow. "Him and Sal are there addressing the Unmarked and Caravan right now. Folks is sayin' that you ran out on us."

  "You may one day wish that I had. Thanks, mates," Retzu said, clapping them both on the shoulders as he passed.

  He saw the crowd before he heard the commotion. Cause and Unmarked alike were pressed tightly, angling to get a better view, all yammering together unintelligibly.

  "Guys, please!" came a frustrated voice over the mob. Retzu could just barely make Sal out, standing at the head of the crowd with Jaren and Menkal at his side. "If you'll just settle down, we'll tell you what we know, but I can't do that if you don't shut up long enough for me to say anything..."

  Sal's eyes panned over to Retzu and locked there. "Oh, thank God," he said in a rush. The crowd turned as one to greet the assassin, and parted as he came close, muttering under their collective breath.

  "Did I miss something?" Retzu quipped. Nobody laughed.

  "What the hell happened to you?" Sal demanded as he drew near. "You just up and run off, every time you get---"

  "Sorry," the assassin interrupted. "Reit... Keth... Then Delana... I had to clear my head."

  Sal bit his top lip and crossed his arms before him, shaking his head in frustration. He leaned close and muttered, "It better be frikkin clear now. We can't keep doing this. Sen'sia," he added with an emphasis that was less than respectful.

  Retzu nodded slowly. "I deserve that. I deserve all your suspicions," he said, this last to the crowd around them. "I haven't exactly inspired confidence, but to be quite honest, I've never wanted to inspire confidence. I didn't want this job. Still don't, really."

  "So is the Cause dead then?" asked one of the assembled, a farrier by the looks of him.

  "No! Prophets, no," he denied emphatically. "It's just that, I've never been a leader. It's not my natural role in life. You know me -- raise a pint with the boys, throw a randy wink at the girls. I owe no man, and no man owes me. For long." This brought a meager chuckle from the mob, so he went with it. "I'm here because my brother was here, and Delana with him. I'm here because my childhood friend is here. My only aim was to help them in their quest. I never dreamed that I'd be expected to take that quest on myself."

  He scanned the crowd as he spoke, taking in faces old and new. Reit -- or whatever "Reit" had been on that mountain -- was right. He was a part of the history of these people, however far he might run from it.

  Time to stop running.

  "But the world don't always turn in expected ways. I just got word from a friend that the Highest is moving against us." He raised his hands for quiet almost before the uproar started. Questions were flung at him right and left -- how soon, how many, who told you, how did the word come -- but the assassin stoically weathered them all. "We've got time," he said as the outburst abated. "I don't know how much, but we've got time."

  "What are we going to do?" This from an emerald Unmarked, one of Sal's lieutenants.

  "I don't know," Retzu shrugged. "T
hat's not for me to say. You are your own man. All of you are," he reiterated, taking in the whole crowd. "We can stay and fortify. We can flee. We can train for combat or hide ourselves among the Bastionites or in the Archives or the Academy. I don't know! I'm not my brother... but I am his," he added, silently thanking Sal for the line. "I don't have the right to ask you to do anything you don't want to. Whatever you decide, you'll have my blessing. But as for me..."

  He paused, and the crowd paused with him. So many chances for him to leave all this behind, so many outs, and he'd decided to stay, only to have the opportunity reappear and present the same choice again. But this time, it was different. This time, his decision had terrible weight. Say the words, and he was sealing himself to this reality.

  He swallowed hard. "As for me, I choose to stay. My brother died on this soil, and I'm loathe to give it up just yet."

  As the words rolled from his tongue, he felt a moment of great release. A crushing tightness that he hadn't noticed in his chest loosened, and cool air freely poured into his lungs, perhaps even his soul. The knots in his stomach went slack, and a strange giddiness bubbled up from them in newfound freedom. He'd said it. It was done.

  He may die in the weeks to come, of course, but it was done. He quirked a smile and asked, "Anybody else feel like sticking around?"

  * * *

  Patrys leaned heavily against a tent pole at the far northern edge of the Camp, watching in disbelief as the assembly bustled -- or perhaps writhed -- with the shol'tuk's address. She couldn't hear the particulars of the assassin's argument, but she caught the gist of it. And the crowd swallowed it whole. Patrys' gemstone eyes scanned the assembly, looking for the slightest sign of skepticism at the assassin's newfound sense of responsibility. She found nothing of the sort. Quite the contrary, the crowd was enthralled, hanging on the assassin's every word.

  Even Sal. How could he possibly be so caught up in someone who would so easily abandon him? Sure, the assassin came back, but that wasn't the point.

  Patrys harrumphed -- or whatever passed for a "harrumph" now -- in disbelief, and maybe a touch of betrayal. She thought for a moment that she was being too rigid, too unforgiving, and silently berated herself for a silly lass. After all, Retzu loathed the Highest as much as Sal did! But the feeling remained all the same. She knew that Sal followed Retzu, trusted him, and had even vouched for him publicly, but she didn't know him, didn't trust him, didn't follow him. She followed Sal.