Halfway back to Gallontea, Gareth paused on Unity’s bridge to lean as far as he could over the stone walls. Hungry black water churned below, but Gareth didn’t fear the old brick giving way. It had stood for two thousand years and would stand two thousand more, arching over the angry sea.
To Gareth, this bridge marked a passage between worlds. Above, below. Unity, Gallontea. The change started somewhere around the third set of lampposts, where Gallontea fell away behind and the bridge stretched ahead until all that remained was Unity, alone against a gray sky and endless water. Gareth was always relieved to cross back over to Gallontea, to descend from these distant heavens.
He’d heard the two places referred to interchangeably: Gallontea meant Unity and Unity meant Gallontea. It was a sentiment nothing short of offensive to Gallontea’s bursting population. If you’d seen both, if you’d crossed this bridge and stood on Unity’s cobbled paths, then you would know. You’d know how different they were. Physically, “Unity” referred only to the small island off the coast, set apart from the mainland to create an illusion of impartiality. Gallontea, by contrast, was just a city.
Gareth ran his hands over the stone, the cold seeping up through his palms, and looked back at the island. From here, it looked peaceful, the clock tower ticking on while the Magistrates changed the world as they all knew it. Gareth’s eyes were drawn habitually toward the clock’s glowing face.
“Shit!” he suddenly swore. Pushing off from the wall so fast he almost fell, he took off down the bridge at a run.
It was five minutes to the hour. He was going to be late.
Leaving the bridge was faster than entering it, at least, the security gates a one-way installation. He hurried on through the public square, weaving and murmuring litanies of “Terribly sorry,” and “Pardon me, please,” as he jostled bodies. From there, onto a side street, then another, his destination closer than he expected. By the time the clock struck the hour and the tower’s bells rang over the city, he had reached it.
He stopped to catch his breath beneath a colorful archway, the words “Rinehart Festival Grounds” painted on the fluttering canvas in friendly lettering. A ticket booth sat up ahead, a dryad girl with flowers in her hair and skin the texture of birch lounging behind the counter. A line trailed out from her counter, and Gareth had just started scanning the faces in the crowd for anyone familiar when a pair of small hands grabbed the leg of his trousers and piping voice yelled, “Surprise!”
Hand flying to his heart in a feint of shock, Gareth whirled to face the newcomer. “Ofelia! By the Three, how sneaky you are!”
A round-faced girl in a neat purple dress grinned up at him. She laughed as Gareth scooped her up. “Momma said you wouldn’t be fooled.”
“Your mother was wrong,” Gareth said, looking up as Isobel joined them. “I missed you two so much.”
“It’s only been a week, Gareth,” Isobel said with a fondly exasperated smile. She leaned up for a kiss then hesitated, drawing back to study her husband more closely. “Why are you out of breath? Darling, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing. It’s just been a long morning,” Gareth said. He paused, looked around to check whether anyone was in earshot. He shouldn’t say more. He’d made up his mind not to say more. But then he lasted all of five seconds before blurting, “Orean kidnapped Amos Nochdvor. Alfheim wants to go to war.”
Isobel’s eyes widened. She clapped her hands over Ofelia’s ears and also looked around for eavesdroppers. “Are you supposed to be telling me this?” she hissed.
“I wasn’t even meant to hear it!” Gareth hissed back. “It was an accident, Bel! Well…mostly an accident.”
Isobel gasped. “You were eavesdropping, weren’t you? On who? Moira?”
“Perhaps a little,” Gareth said weakly.
“Oh dear,” Isobel said in a matching tone. “Tell me more.”
Quickly, quietly, Gareth brought Isobel to speed on everything he’d heard. In his arms, Ofelia wiggled to be put down, so he put her down.
“I don’t like this one bit, Gareth,” Isobel said when he’d finished. “Something seems wrong, here. Why are they so sure it was Orean?”
“Well,” Gareth hedged, thinking back, “It sounded like an orinian did it.”
“Just one?”
“Multiple orinians, must’ve been,” Gareth guessed.
“Must have,” Isobel said, sounding unsure.
Apparently having had enough of being ignored, Ofelia tugged on Gareth’s sleeves. “Do you think that man will be here?” she asked. “The one from last year? With the fire whip?”
“I’m sure he will be,” Gareth said. Smiling down at her, he felt himself begin to relax. Her presence — and Isobel’s — always had this effect, grounding and stabilizing.
Ofelia nodded solemnly. She looked like her mother, with dark hair and soft features, but she had Gareth’s smile. “Let’s go find him.”
“We have to get inside first, dear.” Isobel took Ofelia’s hand and they joined the line curling out from the ticket booth, shorter now than it had been before. Maybe the darkening clouds overhead had frightened away other would-be festival goers, but Gareth was willing to put up with a little rain for this.
“You look beautiful today,” he said to his wife while they waited, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. She wore an elegant blue day dress, recently altered to accommodate her pregnancy, and a bonnet to match. She smiled prettily at the compliment and twined her free hand with Gareth’s, and they stayed that way until they finally reached the ticket booth. While Gareth fished out his pocketbook, the nympherai ticket-girl leaned over the counter and waved at Ofelia. Ofelia waved back, staring with wide eyes at the pinks and purples of the girl’s hair.
“You like them?” the girl asked.
Ofelia nodded and the girl laughed, the flowers swaying with the movement. She passed three tickets to Gareth, then plucked one of the flowers from her hair and tucked it behind Ofelia’s ear. Isobel thanked the girl as they continued through the archway, where the path widened and the cobblestone gave way to a dirt trail packed down by thousands of feet over hundreds of years. A wave of colors, sounds, noises and smells hit the Ranulfs at once. While Gareth and Isobel paused to adjust, Ofelia forged ahead, already pointing out all the things that caught her eye.
Gallontea, an amalgam of all the peoples under Unity’s banner, offered plenty of distractions, but none were so renowned as the Rinehart Festival. It ran every fall, in conjunction with Unity’s conferences, and attracted performers and artisans from all corners of the continent.
As they walked along, Ofelia tried to stop at every juggler, stilt-walker, and fire-breather that caught her fancy, only dissuaded by Gareth’s entreaties of, “Let’s see what they’ve got further along, hm? The gentleman with the fire whip could be just around the corner.” Here, a maranet sat on the corner selling tapestries colored with vivid dyes. There, a pair of nympherai dancers whirled in tiered skirts on a platform, lending their hooves to the beat like a percussive force. Up ahead, a delicate half-alfar sold handmade lace and ribbon that fluttered into the path when the wind blew their way. Gareth even saw one orinian, though they were uncommon in Gallontea.
They played games, shopped, watched performances, bought toys and treats for Ofelia. After a while, when their feet started to drag and Gareth’s pocketbook was feeling a bit thin, Gareth bought them all meat pies and hunted for an open place for them to sit. They ended up awkwardly perched on the fence separating the lawn from the paths.
“Gather round, gather round! This is a show you won’t want to miss!” a voice called. “Hey, you three! We have benches open if you’d like a real place to sit, though far be it from me to critique where such a lovely family eats.” The speaker stepped into the Ranulfs’ path, silhouetted against stormy gray clouds. He was a young man, sapien like Gareth and Isobel and dressed in showy clothing and a red feather-plume hat. He knelt in front of Ofelia and flashed a boyish, dimpled smile. “Do you like Egil stories, little one?”
Isobel laughed and covered her mouth with her hand. “Someone in this family certainly does,” she murmured, quiet enough so that only Gareth could hear — at least, it should have been quiet enough, but the hatted man looked up at the statement, then followed her gaze over to Gareth. He was striking beneath the hat, with light brown skin and large, thick-lashed dark eyes. When those eyes settled on Gareth, Gareth felt a chill run down his spine. There was a weight in his gaze Gareth hadn’t expected, hadn’t prepared for. He was otherworldly in a way Gareth couldn’t place. Gareth would have been less surprised to see him on the stage; he seemed out of place here among the mundane.
“I take it the lady means you, sir?”
Gareth cleared his throat. “Yes, I…study Egil folklore. Academically, I mean. What story are you performing?”
Something in the young man’s smile dimmed, but he gestured to the small outdoor auditorium on his right, off the main path. “You’ll have to stay and see. I can’t promise it’s something you haven’t heard before, but I daresay we’ll make it worthwhile, all the same.” The man leaned in as if to share a secret. “The Webhon Players are the rising stars of theatre. They’re performing for Unity itself next week.”
Isobel nudged Gareth gently. “We may as well; I’d like to have some time off my feet.”
The young man grinned at them both, then ushered the trio toward the benches. “A smart choice. Enjoy the show!”
Gareth, Isobel, and Ofelia had only just settled in their seats when shadows shifted in the wings and fog crept onto the stage in thick tendrils. Paired with the overcast skies above and stone skene behind, it set a dreary mood. Silence stretched on, but as the crowd began to murmur and shift, the feather-hatted young man jumped onto the stage and bowed to the audience.
Gareth had been right: this suited him better.
He waited for the crowd to still, suspended them in their anticipation, then took a breath. It was like a spell, the crowd leaning in with his inhale and back again with his exhale. It crested when he spoke, his voice solemn in a way it hadn’t been before, rich as a golden-red sky at sunsset.
“The days following the Great War were dark,” he said, “But heroes rose out of that darkness – heroes to protect the people and bring hope to a world that had long been hopeless. Among these heroes, one stood the brightest: Egil.”
The young man paused while the crowd cheered; Gareth found himself clapping with the rest.
“Egil, as you seem to already know,” the man said with a twist of his lips, a little mischief making its way back onto his face, “Became the symbol the world needed to heal. He saved lives, ended battles, and made trouble as much as he made a name for himself. But like all heroes, he had doubts. Like heroes inevitably do, he grew tired from a lifetime of bearing the people’s hope. He retired, settled in a golden city that has since passed into memory. The city was ruled by a King who had seen the rise and fall of the Great War and who had learned from it. Egil enjoyed peace there for a time, but when the King fell ill, the people turned on the ruler who made them what they were and Egil could not stand idly by. Let us take you back in time and tell you how Egil saved a King and lost his sanctuary."
The young man backed off the stage as he spoke, and from the other wing, two men walked on. The first was dressed in golden fabrics draped over and around him, secured by delicate fastenings. He was elegant and soft, in stark contrast with the man beside him.
“How fares thy father this evening?” the second asked. This one wore an archetypal hero’s ensemble, stage armor with a sword at his side, and had a full beard and graying hair around the temples. He had to be Egil. The other was the King’s son, who had the heart of his father yet unmarred by tragedy and who appeared in many Egil stories, a steady friend.
“His state remains unchanged,” answered the Prince, “And the Council grows evermore restless. I fear what will happen should they take matters into their own hands.”
“He will improve before they do. I am certain of it,” Egil said. Then, both hero and prince stopped abruptly as a woman entered from upstage left. “Ho! Who approaches at this late hour?”
Lovely did not do the woman justice. While the hero and the genteel prince had very different looks, both were at least of this world – the world of plots and subterfuge, of heroism and war. This woman was something wholly other, in the way the young man in the feathered hat was other. The actress was small, dressed in a trailing gown, and had full dark curls that fell just below her chin. She moved toward Egil as if guided on a breeze, feet barely touching the ground.
Anyone who knew Egil also knew her, the woman who flitted at the periphery of all the world’s stories, heralding strange comings and foretelling calamities. The Oracle of Damael. Her path wound inextricably with Egil’s, the Oracle warning of troubles and Egil preventing them.
“My Lady Oracle,” Egil said stiffly. “What bringest thou to me?”
“My Lord Egil, a warning I must share with thee.”
“Then the sun shines and the wind blows, ev’rything as ever it was. My friend, may I present to thee the Oracle of Damael? Whilst a dear friend she be, I suggest thou leavest ere she speaks her portents. They are never kind to those unfortunate enough to hear.”
Before the Prince could leave, the Oracle stopped him. “I bid thee stay. This concerns thee, young prince. There is one in the castle who would see thy father killed. Stop him before he sees it true.”
They really were quite good, Gareth thought as the show continued. Being well versed in Egil folklore meant that he was picky; he hated when the stories were sensationalized, when they mixed up facts or mischaracterized Egil himself. Academically, Egil was an unusual phenomenon, a common folk hero across species, cultures, and borders. There was a real man there somewhere, beneath the stories, and that made the tragedy of Egil and his twisted end all the more terrible.
But while Gareth’s was an academic fascination, it was also an idolization that drifted back into childhood. It went beyond logical curiosity: even knowing the hero of stories couldn’t exist, he made you wish that he did. And at the end of those stories, when you had to step back and remember that magic and monsters don’t exist, Egil still taught you to be a hero. He made you want to make the right choices, to slay your monsters, to learn that magic is real and it’s in the small things.
Gareth looked around the crowd, curious to see their reactions. As a whole, they seemed to be enjoying the show, but one person stood out to Gareth: the young narrator. He stood off to the side, frowning up at Egil as if annoyed. But when the Oracle’s actress looked his way, he made a funny face, the kind Gareth might pull to make Ofelia laugh. The actress quickly averted her eyes, mouth turned down at the corners like she was fighting a smile.
Before Gareth could look away, the young man met his eye. He tipped his hat and bowed with a flourish, and Gareth quickly tore his eyes away. When he refocused on the play, trying to ignore the strange chill of the young man’s eyes on him, he found he had missed a portion of it. That was no matter. He had, in fact, heard this story before: the Prince and Egil investigated the assassination plot only to discover it was conceived by the King’s own brother. Though heartbroken over his uncle’s betrayal, the Prince helped Egil stop him, laying a trap for the traitor.
Egil fought the Uncle with choreography that danced magnificently across the stage. At the fight’s climax, the Uncle stumbled; Egil held his hand out and a shower of sparks shot out from some contraption in the stage floor. Spectators in the front row jumped at the sudden light, then erupted into cheers; beside Gareth, Ofelia squealed in delight. Then, with the Uncle’s defeat, the show was over. Gareth, Isobel, and Ofelia stayed for the curtain call, but by unspoken agreement, they had reached their limits for the day.
“I’m guessing Moira won’t make it for dinner?” Isobel asked as they circled back to the festival entrance.
“Nor for the indefinite future, I’d imagine,” Gareth replied, “Given…everything. By the way, do you know Leandros Nochdvor?”
“I know of him, certainly,” Isobel said. “Why do you ask?”
“I learned today that he’s a fan of your books.”
Isobel blinked, then laughed. “Oh! How’d you find that out?”
“It’s a rather long story.”
“Well, then, let’s get this one home for a nap first. Would you mind carrying her for a while? I’m afraid she’s going to fall asleep on her feet if we continue on this way.”
“Of course, dear,” Gareth said, scooping up Ofelia and following his wife through the crowd.
Surely, the young man with the feathered hat will not be coming back! Don’t worry about it. Definitely a passing side character. :)
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This email is a part of Fractured Magic, a gothic fantasy webserial. At emrowene.com, you can find a character guide and gallery, a full list of content warnings, and other works by the author. Supporting the story on Patreon will give you early access to chapters plus character art and exclusive content.
I like this way of presenting Egil's history. Related a lot to Gareth because I also do research on a mythical figure and if his portrayal in something is lacking that's a deal breaker.