by Ann Aguirre
She turned. When her gaze met his, the impact of her full attention rocked him a little. Her eyes weren’t merely brown, he decided. Sunlight would distill them to a fine liqueur that required a fanciful name, something like honeyed amber. Idly he wondered how a warm smile might shift the lines of her face.
“You’re more generous than I would be,” she said. “Let’s begin.”
Each time he thought he was about to divert her and make her act more as a person and less as a doctor, she reverted to type. If he wasn’t careful, this could become quite an entertaining hobby. With remarkable obedience, he downed the capsule and lay back on the exam table. She was explaining the procedures, but he stopped listening. Alastor had lost interest long ago in what doctors did to keep him alive. He closed his eyes and didn’t react when the needle sank in.
That would be my kidney.
This pain was sharper than the ones he lived with daily, but it went quicker, leaving a sore spot behind. She did his lung next. If she didn’t work carefully, it might collapse in a day or two. The first time that happened, he was playing with Caia. He hadn’t left the hospital for weeks after that. Memories of his sister carried him through the procedures, the blood drawing, and into the most bearable part of the examination. Light filtered through his closed lids, different than the normal brightness of the room. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and found the overheads off, allowing for projection. This was different than the clinical process at home. Intrigued, he shifted for a better look.
“Try to stay still,” she said.
“Sorry.”
“It’s boring, I know. But invaluable for us, going forward.”
From the corner of his eye, he watched the shape of his body take form in 3-D light, as if it were being shaped out of stars. Each system came together slowly, probably from data the medibots were acquiring. The complete picture took almost an hour to form, but once it did, the accuracy was minute and exquisite, unique to him in every detail.
“We don’t have this technology.”
“The medibots? Right now, they’re purely a diagnostic aid. Imagine if we had the ability to send micro-surgical units in that would perform a correction and then dissolve. No need for invasive surgery at all.”
“Imagine,” he said, with only faint irony.
His tone apparently escaped her. “From your appearance, I can’t tell how many procedures you’ve undergone. I would like to know. For your records.”
“Seventeen. Our scar erasure is top-notch.” His mother had insisted on it. She didn’t want him to be a patchwork of seams and lines, but it was worse, somehow, for there to be no trace of his experiences. Not to mention how much the removal process hurt.
“I’ll make a note. You can sit up now.”
When he moved to comply, the room swam. Possibly skipping breakfast hadn’t been his best move. She rushed to his side to steady him, touching his clammy brow with cool fingers. In confusion, he stared up at her, wondering what it would be like if she wasn’t a doctor, if she wasn’t assigned to his care and she simply… cared.
“You disregarded what I said about healthy meals?” That was, apparently, a rhetorical question, because she hurried for the door and hailed someone in the hallway. Within minutes, she had a dish of that damned soup and hot cup of medicinal crap on a tray.
It took all of his self-control not to slap the rations out of her hands. To his surprise, she set them down and touched his shoulder briefly. “You don’t want this. I wouldn’t either. So just think of who and what you’re fighting for, then choke it down.”
“Such sweet, sage advice.”
“I’m not known for that,” she said. “I’m known for straight talk. We need you, Prince Alastor. Alive, and as strong as you can be. I’ll get you there, but you have to work with me.”
When she put the spoon in his hand, he took it, and for the first time, he felt as if the trials ahead might be mountains he could climb.
3.
Sheyla studied the anatomical model as Alastor downed the food with dogged determination. When he finished, she cleared the tray and checked the bruises she’d noted before. Until the test results came back, she wouldn’t know if they signified a deeper problem, but she could treat them. Quietly she rolled up his sleeves and applied a salve to expedite healing, developed for their small latent population.
“That’s not necessary,” the prince said.
“Do I tell you how to do your job?”
He laughed softly. “No, but it would be helpful. Please, feel free.”
His skin was pale, blue veins visible at his wrists. She smoothed the ointment over the contusions with care, watching his face to gauge his pain. From his reaction, it didn’t seem as if he suffered from neuralgia. Instead, he gazed at her fingers with more interest than she felt the process warranted, leaving her self-conscious. Sheyla cleared her throat.
“It’s impossible to piss you off, huh?” She capped the jar, more curious than she wished about his reply.
“Anger requires energy, so I prioritize what truly merits the time and effort. I have been enraged a time or two, but no, it’s not easily accomplished.”
Although she didn’t ask the obvious question in response, she wanted to. “I sent your samples to the lab. We’re short staffed but I’ll notify you as soon as I hear back. I’ll be studying your body systems in the meantime.”
His gaze held hers for a beat too long. “You have me quivering with excitement.”
Her heart fluttered at that look, a surprising and unwelcome reaction. “Whatever you’re trying to do, stop. You must flirt in reflex, but I’m not receptive to that behavior.”
“All business, hmm?”
“That would be ideal.”
“Then you should share your credentials. I have little choice about accepting your treatment, but it’s your role to reassure me of your capabilities.”
“That’s fair.” After turning off the holo-model, she switched the overhead lights on and beckoned. “You can see my degrees in the office and I’ll answer any questions you may have.”
“Am I allowed to put my pants on first?” With a wry look, he indicated the patterned pajamas she had given him before the exams began.
“Certainly. I’ll be waiting when you’re ready.”
Before leaving, Sheyla downloaded some preliminary data acquired by the medibots and carried it with her to read. The information only raised more questions, however, as he didn’t track with a satisfactory baseline for an Animari patient. That can’t be right. Frowning, she pulled a chart for comparison and was deep into analysis mode when the prince rapped lightly on her open door.
“Did you already forget you asked me to come?”
“Definitely not.” But she was startled by his appearance, no concealing that, so she went with a rueful smile. “Come around behind the desk, my degrees are framed.”
“You went to school in Hallowell?”
Sheyla could understand his surprise. That was the only mixed settlement, where Numina of all kinds resided—a neutral city that was a haven of education and industry with embassies from all factions. She had graduated from Wickford College with a degree in Biology and then studied medicine at St. Casimir, a university hospital run by the monastic order of war bears. She was qualified to treat all types of Animari, but she hadn’t learned much about the Eldritch or the Golgoth, hence her disadvantage now. She had come home after years away to complete her residency in Ash Valley.
“I did. It was… eye-opening. In many ways.”
He tapped the ornate lettering on her framed certificate. “If I’m not mistaken, this means you graduated with the highest honors.”
“Your translation is correct.”
“The monk-physicians at St. Casimir are infamous for tolerating no nonsense. That explains your bedside manner at least.” His laughter rang out then, so genuine that Sheyla smiled reluctantly in response.
“Indeed.”
She expected that to end their di
scussion, but he went around the desk to take a seat across from her, and for the next quarter hour, he asked about her philosophy, her ethics, for anecdotal evidence of her diagnostic style. Awkward at first but before she knew it, she had been telling patient stories for almost an hour.
“Thank you,” he said at last.
“For what?”
“Being yourself. It is an inexpressible joy to be with someone who has no agenda.”
“But I do have one.” That was a poor attempt at humor.
Because he froze, long fingers curling into the arms of his chair as if bracing for a blow. “How you strive to wound and disappoint me. Alas, let’s hear it.”
“I want to make you well. Or as close as you can be.”
His expression eased into a smile that shimmered into the sun-kissed pond of his eyes. “That’s what all doctors want. I can live with that.”
“Bad ones covet power over life and death. Sometimes they want…” She trailed off, wondering why she was saying any of this.
“That sounds like a story you want to tell me, Dr. Halek.”
“Maybe someday,” she said. “If you follow my instructions well.”
“Ah, so you prefer the carrot to the stick.”
“The stick is pointless, my prince. If you don’t fear death, no pain I could inflict would make you comply.” Afterward, she didn’t know why she’d titled him so, when he was neither hers nor did her pride acknowledge royalty per se.
His gaze glittered in response. “That… is true. And what I fear is not death, precisely, but failing to accomplish what I must before my guttering candle burns down.”
It took her a few seconds to process. “So, you think you matter more as a symbol of rebellion than as a person who has the right to live his best, most-fulfilling life.”
Inexplicably, she ached over the memory of him counting. He knew very well how long he had without a fully-functional serum. She might be able to extend his life through other means, endless surgical intervention, but that would take a toll in other ways. He probably wouldn’t have the strength to fight his brother.
And he must.
“I am not a person,” he said softly. “I am a scarecrow, stuffed full of other people’s yearnings. My mother’s desperation, my sister’s charity, my people’s hope. Or perhaps it is more that I’m a cracked vessel and no matter how much others pour in, I cannot hold it.”
For a moment, she wasn’t sure if this was another game he was playing, but then she compared the half-smile to the lines around his eyes. She had to respond as if he meant precisely what he said, for he did. If she reacted otherwise, he would pretend it was a quip or a game. Already she could unravel him enough to know that was his practice—to say true things and then disclaim them with a careless chuckle.
“Bullshit. You are a person. One who carries a heavy burden, to be sure, but you can’t let the needs of many erode who you are.”
“Riddle me that.”
“What?”
“Who I am.”
Sheyla raised a brow. “Are you asking me who you are?”
“I was hoping you’d know. I haven’t for a while.”
Sighing, she made a shooing motion with her hands. “We’re done here.”
“But I wasn’t. I had more absurdity saved up.”
“Prince Alastor.” She spoke in her best, learned from monks, warning tone.
“I liked it better when you called me your prince. So deliciously territorial.”
“Seriously, do I have to evict you forcibly from my office?” She stood up, ready to make good on what was more a promise than a threat.
“It would probably be fun. I like contact sports, even if I suffer for them afterward.”
Only sheer willpower and years of training kept her from laughing. So inappropriate. “All right, that’s—”
“I do have one more question.”
Skeptical, she eyed him, but he was all innocence, so she finally said, “Go ahead.”
“What kind of cat are you?”
For the love of—
It was like he thought she had nothing but time while his clock was ticking. She swallowed the mixture of amusement and annoyance. “I’m a cheetah.”
His smirk was a thing of beauty. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. From our short acquaintance, you seem like an honest person.”
When she snarled and lunged at him, he ran.
Alastor found Princess Thalia deep in conversation with Pru, the pride matron. The conference room was warm, so someone must have fixed the corresponding generator; full power would take longer to restore. With most of the dust swept up, the room was reasonably clean, russet couches and stained carpet that would need more thorough treatment later. The table at which they sat had a crack at the far end, though most of the chairs looked sound enough.
He would rather circle back to aggravate the pretty doctor, but there were only so many hours in the day. Despite Ded’s unenthusiastic evaluation of his chances, he had to try. He watched them for a few seconds, trying to decide between approaching Thalia with an official alliance or coming in on a romantic cloud. Something about the set of her jaw advised against the latter. This was no damsel waiting for rescue.
When they reached a pause point, he made his presence known. “Am I interrupting?”
The pride matron stood automatically, her expression locking into a smile he’d privately dubbed Friendly Discomfort. Something about him bothered her, clearly, but he had no intention of putting her fully at ease. The effort would probably make her mate open his jugular. Princess Thalia showed no response, her face as cool and inscrutable as ever. A white-haired guard took a step forward from the far wall; her upraised hand forestalled the protective gesture.
“Not at all,” Thalia said.
Her features truly were exquisite. Such symmetry rarely presented in nature, so he did wonder if her perfection had been tailored. Not that it mattered. At their invitation, he joined them at the table and declined an offer of hot tea. The silence swelled, making him think he had, in fact, stalled some important discussion.
He was ready to call this a dreadful failure when Pru said, “We were about to go over some preliminary scouting reports.”
“Tycho’s forces?” he guessed.
Thalia nodded. “Shall we begin?”
In response to the pride matron’s signal, the lights dimmed and images appeared on the blank wall opposite. The intel seemed to be coming from wolf drones, along with pertinent data regarding troop movements. Compared to what he knew of the standing military in Golgerra, the number Tycho had fielded was staggering. But based on current camp locations, it was difficult to predict his next target. With the conclave disrupted and the leaders scattered, he probably wouldn’t strike Ash Valley again right away.
“What do you think?” the pride matron asked, once she’d completed the report.
“He’s fully committed to the offensive.” That was a judgment they could make on their own, unnecessary to have personal experience with his brother.
Both women stared at him, expectant, waiting for more. There were so many stories he could tell that would shed light on the monster that was coming. But one incident stuck in his mind, haunting him fifteen years later. This is what they must hear.
“When I was young, my father threw a grand gala to honor my brother, his eldest son. It was ostensibly a birthday party, but we all knew it for what it was, a mark of the king’s favor.”
“Doesn’t the eldest generally become the heir?” Thalia asked.
“Birth order plays less of a role in our culture. The strongest prevails.” That was a teacup truth, sufficient for the story he was about to relate. “The latter portion of the evening was private, strictly for the nobility. But such was my father’s delight in Tycho that he wanted to display his strength and valor for the whole city to admire. So, we held a festival in the palace courtyard, open to all.”
Alastor remembered with perfect, awful clarity how the bree
ze carried so many scents that day: crushed apple blossoms and dried herbs, smoke and roasting meat, the hot spatter of grease and fried dough. It had been loud too, wild with cheering, laughter, shouts of excitement, and the thunder of roving feet. The doctors only let him out for a little while, and for a little while, it was magical.
“Why do I have such a bad feeling?” the pride matron whispered.
“Because you’re perceptive, I suspect.”
“Tycho held court, waving to the citizens from the top of the steps. Make no mistake, my brother is handsome. He is both admired and feared.”
The pause was necessary for his composure, not dramatic. “A little girl broke free from her parents. She had a facial deformity… and a flower. Before the guards could get to her, she reached my brother.” Saying it aloud might make him sick. But he had to. They needed to understand what they faced. “He kicked her down the stairs. Her head…”
Alastor let out a shuddering breath, recalling the pool of blood, but even worse, the indifference after. How the palace staff mopped her up and Tycho never stopped smiling. The festival went on. He’d nearly died of the horror, suffering a bronchial attack that left him bedridden for two days. In those days, he’d read endlessly: political treatises, war stratagems, and he’d imagined how it would be if he ever had the power to stop his brother.
Thalia cursed in high Eldritch, an archaic form reserved for their nobility. Though Alastor’s syntax was rusty, the gist of it made his ears burn. “Your brother is a devil.”
“I know,” he said. “He culls the ‘weak’. My people are known for it, and Tycho is merciless. If he conquers the Numina, he will not be kind. He will purge your populations and we will all eke out a miserable existence on our knees.”
“That can’t happen,” Pru said. She was calmer than he’d expected, visibly troubled but pensive. “Anything you can predict about his strategy could help, anything at all.”
He’d been asking himself that for days. The failure at Ash Valley would have infuriated Tycho, who had been known to flip tables over losing at board games. What’s his next move? Unfortunately, Alastor had spent years avoiding his older brother—for obvious reasons—but an idea developed in flickers and flutters, like a light snow.