Fracture (The Machinists) (10 page)

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“You healed me.”

“So?”

“You saved my life.”

“It was nothing personal,” Nyla said. “It’s what I do.”

Allyn frowned. “I still appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” The words sounded forced and unnatural, as though she were trying them on for the first time, but she wasn’t trying to rip his head off anymore. And that, Allyn thought, was important.

Liam kicked a rock, sending it cascading off the trail and bouncing off a tree. A squirrel darted out of the underbrush in front of him. Startled, Liam came to an abrupt stop, his feet sliding in the mud. The rain had let up for the moment, though if the black clouds suggested anything, it was sure to return at any time. The squirrel vanished back into the forest. Liam kicked another rock, meaning to send it down the path, but it veered off in an unintended direction.

His training session hadn’t gone well. They never did. Jaxon was his reassuring self, telling him that his time would come, to be patient and to keep working. But Liam knew the truth.

He was a failure. A disgrace. An outcast.

He was probably the first son of a grand mage who couldn’t wield. He’d spent his childhood like a prince, waiting for the day when his father would pass and he would inherit the crown. But unlike a king, a grand mage could resign the post when he or she could no longer lead. And Liam’s ascent to grand mage had never been a sure thing. His Family would have its say. They would choose whom to follow. If he couldn’t wield, he wasn’t a magi, and he would never become the grand mage. His father would never relinquish command to Liam, and the Family would never follow him if he did.

He wanted to release the festering self-loathing building inside him with an animalistic scream, but a display of emotion of that magnitude would be a lapse in control. And a magi who lost control was a magi who couldn’t wield. Or at least that was what Jaxon always said.

The exercise was pointless. Liam couldn’t wield anyway, so what would be the harm?
Maybe
, he thought,
I can’t because I’ve already lost control.
The desire might have corrupted him.
Do other magi have self-doubts? Do they struggle for control, too?

Allyn had started training and wasn’t shy about talking about it or asking questions, but Liam had no one to talk to. Jaxon was his instructor, but he didn’t seem to understand. And since Jaxon was also the son of a grand mage—albeit from a different Family—talking about it with him was even more difficult.

Leira was a cleric, and they were different, so she couldn’t help, and he would
never
ask his father—that would only shame him further. He was on his own and had hoped to find something in the library, but so far, his search had been fruitless.

Liam’s pocket vibrated, stopping him mid-stride. He conspicuously checked for onlookers—even several acres from the manor, watchful eyes could be present—and when he was satisfied there weren’t any, he slid off the trail and into the forest, where he hid behind the base of a large tree, with his phone in hand.

His father would kill him if he ever found it. The manor’s computers, security systems, and jammers were all designed for one thing: keeping the wrong people out. His phone was a gateway to the outside world, and with it came a potential threat of dependency. The day they became dependent would be the Day of Disintegration when the remaining Families splintered into oblivion.

Liam believed otherwise, even if he didn’t voice his thoughts. Technology wasn’t to blame for their faltering numbers, and it didn’t breed out their ability to wield. The real problem was how they straddled the fence between both worlds, using technology while disavowing it, claiming purity but knowing it was a lie. He didn’t know who the magi were anymore or who they would become, and that uncertainty caused a splinter in their ranks. Surely it had created a similar splinter in him and the growing number of other magi who couldn’t wield. Technology wasn’t the problem. Uncertainty was.

But who would listen to him? Who would believe him? He was a technological genius who couldn’t wield. He was living proof of his father’s ideology. He
had
to learn to wield. Until he did, he wouldn’t have a voice.

The touchscreen phone had a mirrored image of a bitten apple on the back. Leira had found it and given it to him after a fair amount of pleading on his end. He still owed her a favor. His father might kill him for having it, but Graeme would destroy her if he ever found out where Liam got the phone.

The words “Search Complete” glowed on the screen. It didn’t tell him what the search had found; he would have to check his computer in the library for that, but the search was done. And they would have an answer. Even if the search hadn’t found anything, they would have an answer of sorts. In that case, they might be able to finally rule out Allyn being a distant relative. But if it did find something…

Liam smiled. Being useful would feel good.

“It’s not the results I distrust,” Graeme said, “but the manner in which they were discovered.”

Allyn, who seemed as annoyed as he was, stirred beside Liam. His father sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, his hands together in front of his face. Rain streaked down the window, fogging the edges and forming condensation on the inside.

Liam shook his head. Graeme told him that he trusted him but didn’t trust the tools he’d used. He wanted his own people to recreate Liam’s research by hand to verify the results. But he wouldn’t be looking for verification. He would be looking for inconsistencies, mistakes, anything to ignore what was right there in front of his face.

“I’ll have Leira organize a team and search through the archives by hand,” Graeme said. “Just to be sure.”

“To what end?” Liam asked, louder than he intended. “I already searched the archives. I’ve already done exactly what you’re going to do. It’s a waste of time.”

Allyn shifted. He opened his mouth partway, as if he were going to say something, but he remained silent. Liam was thankful for that. This was between him and his father, and Allyn didn’t need to get involved.

“Don’t,” Graeme said. “I am still your father, and I am still the head of this Family. If I need to confirm someone’s story—anyone’s story—it is well within my right to do so.”

“It’s not a story.”

“It is until proven otherwise.”

“What more do you need?” Liam asked. “Allyn is one of us. His last name shares the same root as two ancient Family names.”

“Two Families that were killed off more than a thousand years ago.”

“Did we expect to find anything else?” Liam asked. “If he was a member of this Family or any other large Family, we wouldn’t be conducting this search to begin with. Why do you always do this? Why don’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you.”

“Then why do you need confirmation? If you don’t understand how I did it, I’d be happy to show you.”

“That’s not necessary. I wouldn’t understand anyway,” Graeme said with a smirk.

“It’s not that much different than what you’ll have Leira do,” Liam said. “I conducted a search beginning with basic letter combinations. It’s not as easy as just typing in ‘Allyn Kaplan’ and hitting search. Names change over time, and words can be spelled in multiple ways. So I included a search for basic sound constructions. I got tens of thousands of hits. Anything with those letters or sound constructions was found, even if they had nothing to do with names, so I refined the search until I had a more manageable number.

“From there, I actually went to the source material and searched through it that way. So I guess, Father, if you still feel the need to verify my findings, I can point you to the specific book where you can do so.”

Graeme tapped his fingertips together. “That won’t be necessary.”

Liam couldn’t help smiling. It was the first time he’d been able to convince his father to trust him. He turned to Allyn, who gave him a slight nod of approval.

“You know,” Graeme said, walking to the bar at the back of the room, “that this still doesn’t mean you’re one of us.”

“I know,” Allyn said.

“Names are complicated,” Graeme said. “They change. They evolve. Wives assume the names of their husbands. Children are adopted. People change their names legally or simply assume a new identity. You may share a name but not the blood.”

“I understand,” Allyn said.

“Still, it warrants further investigation.” Graeme turned back to Liam. “You said you found the name in a diary?”

“Yes,” Liam said. “The diary of Mathieu Latique. He talks about the rumored destruction of the Capalonian Family and fears for his own.”

“And you didn’t find any other mention of the Capalonian Family?” Graeme asked.

Liam shook his head. “Nothing that was useful.”

Graeme poured himself a glass of water and took a drink. “I’m going to contact Darian Hyland, Grand Mage of the Hyland Family, and ask for their permission to search their library.”

“Why not have them do it for us?” Allyn asked.

“If you and your sister are of magi blood and can potentially wield, that would shake the very foundation from which we stand. It’s not something to take lightly.”

Chapter 10

L
ukas took Kendyl with him everywhere he went. She became a fixture at his side, always seen but never heard, like a little trophy wife to be paraded around. Jarrell assumed it was another form of imprisonment, one without walls but constant with supervision. She accompanied him during meals, meetings, training sessions, outside excursions, and even during the night. He didn’t know what form of punishment her nightly routine took, and he wasn’t about to ask. That could cause a scene and attract attention. That wouldn’t help her escape.

Kendyl and Lukas sat at the front of the room between his bodyguards, Kaleb and Reyland. The clatter of forks on plates and glasses on tables, along with general commotion, echoed throughout the large room. In the makeshift dining hall folding tables and chairs were arranged in a chaotic manner, nothing like the formal dining room in Graeme’s manor.

Kendyl ate in silence. Jarrell had never heard her speak. He’d heard her cries, her pleas, which she screamed through tears and between sobs, but he didn’t know how her real voice sounded. He set down his fork, having lost his appetite.

Still, she held her chin up and gazed through the room, seemingly unafraid to make eye contact with her captors. He didn’t know how she did it. Jarrell had seen stronger men break quicker. She had an inner strength that kept her from cracking. And that was what Lukas was after.

“Lukas won’t like seeing that go to waste,” Keven said, pointing at the half-eaten contents of Jarrell’s plate. Keven was one of Lukas’s youngest followers. Maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, he was the same age as Jarrell’s son. But Simon would never have followed a tyrant.

“I don’t have the appetite I once did,” Jarrell said. “And I haven’t done anything to work one up, either. I haven’t left this compound in weeks.”

“Our day will come. We need to stay strong. You should eat.” The voice may have been Keven’s, but the words were Lukas’s. Why were the young so easily influenced? So corruptible?

Was I once so naive?
“You’re right.” Jarrell picked up his fork and shoveled in a mouthful. It was easier and less conspicuous than arguing. Keven was soon caught up in a conversation with a member from another table, and Jarrell slid his plate to the center of the table.

He gazed across the room at Kendyl. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her heart-shaped face was the color of pristine porcelain without any bruises or cuts. Her skin showed no evidence of her torture. Those marks were on the faces of the other clerics in the dining room, who, like Jarrell, took turns healing her wounds. They wore bruises, black eyes, and treated cuts, scrapes, and burns, so that Kendyl didn’t have to, so she could be beaten again the next day—and the day after. Jarrell was still recovering from the first healing that had almost killed him.

She needed hope. She needed to know that someone in the room was on her side. He was going to tell her, and he hoped she believed him. Her eyes met his and lingered. Even from across the room, he thought he could make out the green of her eyes and the slight imperfection in her right pupil. He nodded.

Kendyl remained expressionless. She had no way of knowing what his nod meant or what his intentions were. He was just another person in a long line of people who had healed her so she could be abused again later. She had no reason to trust him and no reason to assume he was any different from the rest of them.