Shattering the Ley (14 page)

“So,” Ischua said, to break the awkward silence, “where did the illustrious Prime Wielders station their newest Wielder?”

Kara ran her hands over the surface of the stone, then tucked it into one of the pockets of her jacket. “Eld District.”

Ischua’s eyes narrowed. “Really? That’s . . . interesting.”

Kara straightened where she sat, leaning forward. “Why?”

Ischua glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, raising his mug to take a slow drink. He lowered his head, as if considering whether he should answer or not, then blew out a breath between his lips. “Because the Primes don’t usually allow Wielders to work in the same district where they grew up. You know how they are about keeping the Wielder secrets.”

“‘No Wielder can know the location of all of the ley lines, nor all of the nodes,’” Kara recited.

“Only the Prime Wielders know the true map of the ley, and most of those only know that of Erenthrall or their own city’s Nexus. Only Prime Augustus knows the full extent of the ley system, and he won’t share. The ley system is his creation and he intends to keep it that way.”

Kara shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

“You tried to map it yourself, didn’t you?”

Kara took a hefty swig of beer, coughed harshly. “How did you know?”

Ischua chuckled. “I don’t think there’s ever been a green jacket who hasn’t. What did you discover?”

“That the ley system we can see being used for the barges—and now the flyers—and the nodes that dot the city are merely surface elements of a much larger system underground.” She sighed.

Ischua nodded. “There are nodes throughout the city, ones that the general population in Erenthrall does not know about, or suspect.”

Kara thought about what she’d sensed when Ischua had tested her, the lake of ley hidden beneath the city. “Like Halliel’s Park.”

Ischua raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps.” But then he frowned. “But placing you in the Eld District is unusual. I would have expected them to station you somewhere north of Grass, away from all of the people that you knew growing up, away from any friends or family.”

“I don’t have any family in Eld anymore,” Kara said. “The only friend I have is Cory, and I haven’t spoken to him since he was tested and sent to the University in Confluence a few months ago. I’ve been too busy.” She thought abruptly of Justin, but shoved that memory away. He’d never been found after disappearing that day, although she knew that his parents had continued the search, that they’d even continued their attempts to enlist the Dogs. Their efforts had yielded nothing. Justin was simply gone, as if he’d never existed.

Kara shivered at the thought.

Ischua settled his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She gave him a weak smile, then noticed that his attention had been caught by something over her shoulder.

“Marcus!” he shouted, half-standing from the barstool and motioning someone over from the opposite side of the bar. “Marcus, come here. I have someone you should meet.”

Kara twisted in her seat, then stilled.

Marcus was another Wielder, his purple jacket dusty and worn with use, although he appeared to be only a few years older than Kara. His hair was a thick blond-brown, mussed up as if he’d just run his hands through it, and his eyes were a startling blue. He moved with a cool confidence, drawing away from another group of Wielders seated around a table in the far corner. His grin was easy and didn’t falter even when he caught sight of Kara and a slight frown of consternation creased his forehead.

“Ischua,” he said in acknowledgment.

“This is Kara Tremain,” Ischua said. “Freshly risen to the purple jacket . . . and stationed in the Eld District.” The gardener turned to Kara. “Marcus Renshaw, one of the Wielders in Eld. You’ll be working with him for the next few years.”

Marcus held out his hand, the creases in his forehead gone. As they clasped forearm to forearm, a heady warmth rushed from Kara’s hand down through her chest, settling disconcertingly in her stomach. She gasped slightly, then caught Marcus’ eyes.

“Welcome to the Eld node,” he said. “Find me when you arrive, and I’ll show you around.”

“I don’t think I can do it,” Tyrus said without preamble as he dropped himself into the seat across the small café table from Dalton.

Dalton glanced up from the news sheet he was reading, took in his fellow Kormanley’s appearance—pale, haunted, and shaken—and immediately motioned for the server. “A shot of Gorrani wine, please, the stronger the better.”

Then he turned his attention to Tyrus. The slightly younger man looked as if he’d aged twenty years since he’d infiltrated the splinter sect of Kormanley, his hair gray and face pinched and lined with worry and tension. He sat slumped in his chair, staring at Dalton but without any indication that he actually saw him, his eyes distant, locked on some vision Dalton couldn’t see.

“I can’t,” he mumbled to himself as the server arrived and placed the tall, narrow glass of wine on the table. “I can’t do it.”

As soon as the server departed, Dalton asked, “Can’t do what?” Although he thought he already knew. He’d given the order, after all.

Tyrus jerked, his focus snapping in on Dalton, then away as he checked to see if anyone sat nearby. They were outside one of the many cafés in Wintemeer, but Dalton had chosen a secluded section near the back, partially hidden behind a screen of dangling ivy. No one was near.

Tyrus leaned forward. “They want me to plant a bomb on one of the barges. I can’t do it, Dalton. Running errands for them, passing along messages, even forging documents through my office is one thing, but this is entirely different. This bomb may kill people! Others have before this.”

Dalton frowned in consternation. He nearly pointed out that forging documents and passing messages that led to the bombs the Kormanley had been setting off throughout the city for the last four years made Tyrus as culpable as those who planted the bombs in the first place, but restrained himself. Tyrus didn’t need any more doubt or guilt laid at his feet. He was already shaken up enough.

And Dalton needed him where he was, as his eyes and ears in that splinter cell. If he backed out now. . . .

“They trust you enough to plant a bomb?” he asked carefully.

Tyrus snorted. “I don’t know if it’s trust so much as desperation. The Dogs have been sniffing a little too close to the group lately. Calven thought he caught one following him the other day, so he doesn’t dare risk it himself. Both Vanel and Ari planted the last one in Stone. Even though that was six months ago, they don’t dare do another any time soon. That only leaves me, and Vanel has threatened—” He cut off suddenly, one hand reaching to massage the back of his neck. Fear leaked out through the sickening dread that had bleached his face. His gaze locked with Dalton’s. “But I can’t do it. I can’t do something that I know will hurt people, probably kill them. What if there are women on the barge? Children?” He looked close to vomiting.

Hot anger flicked through Dalton; he reached forward and grabbed the flute of Gorrani wine. Tyrus’ weakness nauseated him. This was why the original Kormanley had failed so miserably, because no one had been willing to take action, to take risks. It was why he’d cultivated the younger members when he’d noticed they were willing and able to take those extra, sometimes violent, steps.

“Don’t you see what this means?” he snapped. “It means you’re finally making progress. Real progress. It took over a year before they trusted you enough to remove their cowls during the meetings and reveal themselves.”

“That was only because the Dogs raided and caught Korana and Pils immediately after that first meeting,” Tyrus grumbled.

Dalton nodded in irritation at the interruption. “But they revealed themselves. We knew who they were. We figured out how they operated, and you were privy to some of their plans.”

“Not that it helped much.”

Dalton thrust the wine into Tyrus’ hands, noted that they weren’t trembling as much. “We stopped their attack in Wintemeer, didn’t we?” Which was a lie. That had been an accident; the bomb had gone off before it could be put in place. But if the accident could be used to keep Tyrus in line, so much the better. “And now they trust you to carry out one of the attacks yourself. I’d call that progress. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless. More than the Dogs can claim. Now drink. It will help calm your nerves.”

Tyrus drank absently, coughed harshly as the potent wine—made from a cactus that grew only in the Gorrani Flats—hit the back of his throat. A flush burned through his sickly pallor. “We’re still no closer to finding out who the Kormanley’s Benefactor is,” he wheezed.

“But we know there are at least five Kormanley groups spread throughout the city, even if we don’t know who their members are. One of them must have contact with this Benefactor, or at least know of someone who does.” Dalton knew the Benefactor, of course, even if he only received direction from him through a courier. And there were seven active Kormanley groups in Erenthrall, not to mention the groups he’d begun to organize in other cities with the Benefactor’s help.

“Calven said someone from one of the other groups approached him recently, a man named Ibsen. He said the group is planning something major and they may need our help. He didn’t reveal any other details, only that it involved the Baron somehow.”

A tension within Dalton released and he leaned back into his chair and picked up his own wine. So Ibsen had made contact, then. This was exactly why he needed Tyrus in that group’s confidence.

And it was exactly what he needed to keep Tyrus where he was.

“You have to plant the bomb, then.” At Tyrus’ pained look, he added, “Even if we can’t learn the identity of the Benefactor, you need to remain inside the Kormanley group long enough to find out about this new plan.”

Tyrus held his gaze . . . but then his shoulders sagged in resignation. He took a deep swallow of the wine, merely wincing at the burn. “If you think it’s best.”

Taking pity, Dalton asked, “Where are you supposed to plant this bomb?”

“On a barge in the ley station in North Umber, beneath one of the seats.”

“If you can give me more details, I’ll see if I can stop it somehow, like the Wintemeer attack.”

Hope flared in Tyrus’ eyes. “I’ll let know you which barge as soon as I find out.”

Dalton forced a reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine, Tyrus. Trust me.”

Tyrus finished the last of his wine with a grimace and hurried through the scattered café tables and out into the street. As soon as he passed outside of Dalton’s view, Dalton frowned.

Tyrus might be a problem. He couldn’t afford to push him so far that he ran to the Dogs. He knew little about the splinter Kormanley—only those members in his own group, and now Ibsen—but Dalton couldn’t afford to have the Dogs nosing around at this stage. Not so close to the beginning of this new endeavor. The attacks on the ley stations, bridges, and the Baron’s holdings throughout the city weren’t enough; the last four years had proven that. And the Kormanley’s Benefactor had grown impatient. He wanted the group to do something more significant.

Dalton was more than happy to oblige. He glanced skyward, noted two barges and one of the lords’ personal flyers skimming the sky overhead, above Grass. His lip curled in derision and his stomach roiled. The Baron’s abuse of the ley had become more flagrant with the activation of the Flyers’ Tower. The ley was never meant to be used in such a manner. He had hoped the attacks would catch the attention of the citizens of Erenthrall, force them to see the Baron’s abuse for what it was, but obviously the citizens were content to let him squander the ley’s power for his own purposes. He’d certainly used it to solidify his hold on the other Barons, lords, and ladies; most were clamoring to have Flyers’ Towers built in their own cities.

Not even the strange distortions that had begun appearing throughout Erenthrall over the past few years were enough to awaken the citizens’ fears. The bursts of light that appeared at random made everyone pause, and there were rumblings of discontent, but usually only when the distortions forced a delay in the ley barges’ schedules. Most didn’t care where they came from, or what caused them, as long as they didn’t disrupt their lives.

But Dalton did. Each instance of a distortion drove his fear of what the Primes and the Baron were doing to the ley deeper into his gut. He was convinced they were caused by the overuse of the ley, that they were signs of the strain on the system. He couldn’t prove it—he had no intimate knowledge of the ley nodes or the Nexus—but he
knew
it was true. The distortions were a warning. And if that warning wasn’t heeded. . . .

He shuddered—in fear, dread, and with a touch of ecstasy. He didn’t know what would happen, but he’d had visions of Erenthrall in ruins, its towers cracked, its streets empty. Each time he dreamed, he woke soaked in sweat, his body trembling and weak. And the visions were coming more often now, had become more intense. They’d set him on this path initially—they were why he’d joined the Kormanley in the first place, in his youth—but now they’d grown urgent, as if a reckoning were coming. He had to stop it. It was his destiny to stop it.