Interlude II

  “Temporal disturbances, while common enough during the Red Decade, are to be hereby treated with utmost precedence. Any and all incidence are to be reported to Her Grace’s Order of Radiance immediately.”

  – Magistra Saranna Featherstone of Her Grace’s Order of Radiance

  ~*~

  The Grand Pantheon

  Giaval, Capital of Orenthium

  13:47pm Local Time

  Tonight, Alasdair’s quiet confidence was a lie.

  He drew a measured breath as he passed through the dimly lit corridor on his way to the High Magister’s study, jaw tight, back straight. He fussed with the cuffs of his coat, having taken the time to change out of the ridiculous outfit he’d been required to wear in the other world mere moments prior. Beyond being an affront to fashion, they’d been poorly tailored, uncomfortable and utterly inappropriate for the halls of the grand pantheon. He was a justiciar, and regardless of what fate might await him, he would carry himself with the dignity worthy of his station.

  When he reached the heavy oak doors, he took a moment to steel himself. There were too many questions, too many unknowns, for him to go into this briefing with any measure of surety. At best, he might appear incompetent. At worst, well, he refused to acknowledge that particular possibility until faced with an accusation. If this fox of his was indeed a spy, Alasdair wouldn’t have been permitted to come this far.

  He knocked once.

  Twice.

  At the High Magister’s command, the doors parted. He sat at his desk at the far end of the room, back to the grand window overlooking the garden of the inner sanctuary. Alasdair made his silent approach with a conviction he didn’t feel, then stopped midway through the room with his right fist pressed to his heart and his left to the small of his back. He set his gaze along the glass a foot or so above the Magister’s head so as not to look upon him directly, and waited.

  For several seconds, the only sound in the room was the subtle scraping of a quill across parchment. Alasdair refused to allow the quiet to eat away at his nerves. Distantly, he felt something attempting to draw his attention somewhere behind him, but he ignored it. It was nerves. Nothing more.

  “Justiciar Cayelstis,” the High Magister said, “I was hoping you might grace my office before the turn of the night. Tell me, was your excursion a success?”

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  “No, your Radiance. The artifact was stolen before I was able to secure it.”

  The scratching of the quill stopped.

  “Stolen,” he said, allowing the weight of the word to settle between them.

  Alasdair didn’t waver, “Yes, your Radiance.”

  There was the faintest creak of leather as the High Magister sat back in his seat, “But you were able to confirm its presence? Its authenticity?”

  “Yes, your Radiance.”

  “Then it would seem your efforts were not wholly in vain. Locating the Shard of Creation is a success in and of itself. Though, its loss is regrettable. What, exactly, transpired?”

  Alasdair had not failed to notice the slight edge his tone had taken when speaking of its loss.

  Regardless, he gave his report in full. Their allies in the otherworld had given them an accurate account of what to expect during the night’s proceedings; the guestlist involved people from all across their world, though Alasdair was supposed to have been the only outsider. He’d expressed his doubts over that particular fact as he recounted the details, for whomever this thief was, they had to have at least some idea of its significance. It had been the only item taken. The events leading up to the theft hadn’t been all that out of the ordinary, though when the shard had awakened, the whole of the estate had felt it. While quick, the tremor had rocked it to its very foundations.

  As his report drew to a close, the High Magister rose and said, “Ease yourself, Alasdair.”

  Reluctantly, he lowered his hands and spared a direct glance in the Magister’s direction. He had always been a man of regal bearing, dark of hair while light through the eyes. In the absence of a full moon, little could be seen of the grey at his temples. He stood, hands neatly clasped behind his back while he gazed out over the sanctuary. The angle had thrown his face into shadow, though Alasdair knew better than to assume his attention was anywhere but on him.

  “What of this thief? Have you an idea as to where she is now?”

  “Not presently,” he admitted, “but the energy produced during a crossing is bound to cause a temporal disturbance at the nearest spiritstone. Once a temple reports in, we’ll have our heading.”

  “Trust that we do,” he said, “We need that shard secure if we are to extend our borders.”

  And to restore order, Alasdair thought, resisting the urge to grind his teeth.

  “Yes, your Radiance.”

  Recognizing his dismissal for what it was, he pivoted and took his leave as silently as he’d entered.

  ~*~

  Since his return, Alasdair had found some small part of himself drawn elsewhere. At first, the feeling had been fleeting. Subtle. Easy to ignore. However, as time wore on, it became increasingly persistent.

  Throughout the day following his report, his attention would fixate on some unseen point regardless of where he happened to be. He’d find himself staring across the city, through a window or sometimes, even at a wall. It was odd, yes, but stress was easy enough to blame for his dissociation. So, he’d explained it away. Until he’d noticed a singular commonality: the direction of his interest never changed. On several occasions, he’d gone so far as to twist in his seat or turn where he stood in order to focus his attention to the northwest.

  Not his, he realized, but rather, his artifact’s.

  Word of a temporal disturbance from the temple in Ralencia later that evening had all but confirmed his suspicions; his shard was being pulled toward its twin. His fox had emerged. And he’d followed the trail.

  When he emerged from the aerostat, he knew, beyond doubt, his quarry was close.