“What does it matter?” he said as he turned to her. “I was only saying what happened.”
Frisha inhaled sharply and slapped her hands over her mouth as she got a look at Malcius’s face. Alarmed by her reaction, Malcius ran his fingers over the skin along the right side of his forehead down to his cheekbone.
“What is it?” he said. “Was I stung by a wasp? Is it bad?”
Frisha looked to Rezkin, who stared at Malcius with apathy. Upon noticing Frisha’s pleading gaze, he said, “What? I can do nothing about this. They are now married.”
“No!” screamed Yserria. “No, I did not ask for this. It’s not right!”
“You claimed him. That was a statement of willingness on your part. He just recognized the claim outside of Lon Lerésh. The ritual spell has run its course.”
“What are you talking about?” said Malcius. “What ritual spell? And, what is this about our being married?”
Frisha looked to Rezkin. “Is there nothing that can be done?”
He shrugged. “Men have tried for centuries to undo the binding. The ritual is very old. It gains power with time and use. Malcius bears Yserria’s mark. A like one will adorn her face by the end of the day.” He looked to Malcius. “Within Lon Lerésh, you are recognized as her consort. Anywhere else, you are now her husband.” He paused, then said, “You realize that she is still my ward. Since you did not ask permission to marry her, I have the right to challenge you to a duel to the death.” Malcius’s face paled.
Frisha fisted her hands on her hips and turned to Rezkin. “Don’t be cruel. This is not a joking matter.”
“You think I jest?” he said then turned back to Malcius. “Yserria’s mark will prevent you from entering into another union, so you two will have to work things out.”
Yserria rounded on Malcius. “You! This is your fault. Again! You were forbidden from speaking of it. You agreed! Why do you never listen? Always, you are running your mouth.”
“My fault? Why did you not tell me this would happen?”
“I thought you knew! You agreed not to speak of it—ever.” Yserria stormed away, but Malcius followed her into the cabin, presumably to continue their argument in private.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” said Frisha. She looked up at Rezkin. “I am glad you never speak of it, and I’m sorry for berating you. It still doesn’t change what happened, though.”
Rezkin could tell from the pain in her eyes that she would probably never forgive him. A pain struck him in the chest as he decided it was better for her since he would never be able to give her what she wanted. He knew the pain he experienced was one of loss. He had felt it long ago at the northern fortress. He had felt it with Palis’s death, and he had felt it when Malcius and Yserria had disappeared. What he did not understand was why he felt it now. Frisha had not died or disappeared. She was still his friend, and she was standing right in front of him, yet he still felt that he had lost her somehow.
He said, “You should gather your things. You will be moving to the other ship for your return to Cael.”
“You are not going with us?” she said.
“No. I must complete the deal with Privoth.”
As she walked away, he glanced back at the other ships. The former crew of the Ashaiian ship had been imprisoned in Havoth; and the ship, renamed Mystic, had a primarily Ferélli crew. Two Ferélli warships, Atlandisi and Vispania, now escorted Stargazer as well. Farson and Shezar were busy figuring out what to do with Yserria’s entourage, so Rezkin summoned Akris. He said, “Move unnecessary personnel to Mystic. Prepare it and Vispania for a return to Cael. After we have resupplied, Stargazer and Atlandisi will land at Fort Ulep. From there, we will head straight for Drovsk.”
Akris left to carry out his orders, and Rezkin turned to the other two strikers. He waved to the captain to join them. “Moldovan wishes to meet with the governor to assure him this was not a hostile takeover. Assign him a Ferélli guard so that it will not appear that we are forcing him.” To the strikers, he said, “One of you follow and remain hidden as backup. Return as soon as the meeting is concluded. We are leaving as soon as the ships are reorganized and resupplied.”
“No shore leave, then?” said Estadd.
Rezkin looked at the captain. “A secret war is already being waged. Enemies are being recruited and have been placed. It is unlikely that we have encountered so many demons by coincidence, yet I doubt we were being targeted. I believe it is because they are already so profuse. Demons and spies may even be aboard this ship. It is best to assume that, aside from Cael, no port is a friendly port.”
After he saw that everyone was performing their duties, Rezkin went to look for Wesson. The mage was in the storeroom hunched over a crate he was using as a table. Broken pieces of pottery were scattered over its surface, a few having spilled onto the floor, and an unblemished specimen was at the center of his focus. Rezkin watched as Wesson designed the structure of a spell, then laid it over the pot. He then cast another at the broken pieces. The shards began to rattle and shift, moving closer to each other and fighting for space. Then, the undamaged pot began to shake, a hollow sound escaping its open mouth. It abruptly shattered, spilling its pieces on top of the others.
“No!” Wesson cried as he buried his hands in his curly locks. He glanced up at Rezkin and said, “I must put it back together. If I can tear it apart, I should be able to put it back together.”
As he began frantically gathering the pieces of both pots, Rezkin moved to crouch at his level on the other side of the crate.
“Journeyman Wesson, you cannot put the Ashaiian ship back together, nor can you recreate the people. They are lost. You must accept that.”
Wesson blinked at him. “I know that. But, I must find balance. For the sake of my sanity, I must be able to fix things, not just destroy them.”
Rezkin stared at the broken pieces with his enchanted eyesight. Although they lacked the swirling colors, their broken disarray reminded him of his own colors of shattered glass. He noticed that the pottery shards still possessed the same glow as the pot when it had been whole. He said, “The pieces have not changed, only their arrangement, their relationship with each other. Before, they possessed a synchrony of purpose, a design; whereas now, they are fragmented, without purpose, and without order.”
Wesson looked at the pieces. “Yes, I see what you are saying.”
Rezkin said, “Some people might prefer them this way.”
“Why would anyone want broken pottery?”
“Because now they can be shaped and combined in any way you want.”
“Like a mosaic?”
Rezkin picked up a piece glazed with blue and white designs, turned it, and then placed it on the crate. He added another and then another. After a few minutes, he sat back and examined the design.
“It is beautiful,” said Wesson. “It looks like a star.”
Rezkin tapped the crate. “It would not have been possible had the pieces remained in their original state.”
Wesson looked at the pieces sullenly. He said, “But it will never again be a pot.”
Rezkin motioned to the open crate beside them. “Does it need to be? We have more pots.”
“But I have no use for this,” Wesson said, motioning to the mosaic. “A pot is useful.”
“Then make it into something useful,” said Rezkin. “Perhaps, with time, you will learn to create things anew. Perhaps you will even learn to fix them. You should not punish yourself for your ignorance, so long as you continue to correct it.”
Wesson still looked at the pieces with disappointment but muttered, “How did you get to be so wise?”
Rezkin said, “I do not know if I am wise, but I think differently than most.” He lifted one of the pots from the crate and set it next to the mosaic. He pointed to the pot and said, “This is most people.” Then, he pointed to the mosaic and said, “This is me. Perhaps someday you will fix me, too.”