by Aldrea Alien
He rolled off the women to sprawl on the ground. Everything had a purple glare to it. His chin stung like he’d scraped it back to the bone. Already, he felt the familiar tug of his power working on fixing the injury.
The smoky aroma of burnt linen filled his nose. Summoning what energy he could, Dylan patted himself down. There were a few singed spots on the skirts of his robe. He was whole, seemingly in no danger and most definitely alive.
The arena’s main entrance opened, the customary bang of the doors muffled and tame compared to the previous blast that had assaulted his ears. Dylan rolled his head to the side and blurrily watched the blazing outline of two figures running across the room. One of them wore the flapping robes of a spellster and was most likely Sulin, the other…
Dylan blinked, his vision slowly restoring, and took in the woman wearing the dark grey leather tunic of the guardians. Tricia? He sat up, his body strongly objecting to the sudden movement. How had she gotten here so soon? Had she been one of the voices calling for them to stop? I’m in so much trouble.
Sulin blew past them with barely a glance in their direction, making straight for the twisted pieces of the shield. Dylan idly followed the alchemist’s actions with a sort of distant fascination. The pieces slowly lifted as Sulin manipulated the meagre talent he possessed to examine the smoking remains without direct contact.
“Dylan?” Tricia collapsed beside him. “What did you think were you doing, child?” She grabbed his head turning it this way and that, examining him for injuries until she was satisfied there weren’t any. “You could’ve been killed,” she whispered, drawing him into a tight hug.
He squirmed. Such a display of concern only made it worse. What punishment was she concocting? Would she have him escorted around the tower like some of the other spellsters? For how long? He shrank from his guardian’s grasp. “I’m all right, Mother.”
Tricia sat back, a rare proud smile curving her lips. “You are.” She fussed with his hair, tucking several dark strands behind his ears. “My brave boy.”
Embarrassment gently warmed his cheeks. He’d been stupid. His gaze slid back to where Sulin was crouched over the remains of the infitialis shield. The elf was shaking his head, but there seemed to be a distinct lack of concern on the alchemist’s face. That meant the danger was over. From the shield, at least.
Beside them, Nestria groaned. She sat up, her movements oddly stiff.
He crawled across the space between them. “Ness?” Had that final blast struck her as hard as it’d done him? “Are you all right?”
She rubbed at her head. “Just a bump. I’ve had worse falling out of bed.”
His gaze slid to Nestria’s robe. A large, dark red patch had formed on the elf’s left sleeve. Higher still, the pale fabric was a charred mess. “Bit more than a bump.”
Those big brown eyes lowered to where he held her arm. She gasped as he peeled back the blood-soaked sleeve. Blood ran down her arm, trickling from raw peeling skin. Dylan tracked the burnt flesh up her arm until it culminated in a hideous charred and weeping wound near her shoulder. More of the rawness above suggested further injury beneath her robe.
“First bolt must’ve struck before I got a shield up. Funny, I don’t even remember it.” Nestria fingered her forearm, hissing only when she made contact with the blistering skin of her wrist. “It barely hurts.”
Keeping his grip light, he focused on healing her by teasing out the body’s natural ability to mend itself and encouraging it to quicken. The blood stopped flowing. The peeled skin flaked away and the rawness of the flesh underneath faded, leaving behind a strangely delicate branch-like pattern of pink scars. Even these had begun to fade into a silver-purple by the time his power halted.
Nestria beamed up at him. “Thanks.”
He shrugged. It wasn’t the first time he’d healed her, it likely wouldn’t be the last.
“We must get this poor girl to the infirmary,” Tricia said, drawing his attention back to the unconscious alchemist lying beside him. Despite her singed robes, she didn’t appear to have suffered any serious injuries. Just a few scrapes she’d likely gotten when she fell. “Sulin. Help me carry her.” She beckoned the elf away from the pieces of infitialis.
Sulin obeyed, eyeing the remains with every step.
His guardian huffed. “If it was going to explode again, it would’ve done so by now.”
Dylan stood, staggering slightly as his legs objected to taking his weight. “If he wants to examine the shield further, I can help with Mary.”
Tricia snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, child. You haven’t the strength at the best of times.” She bent to hoist Mary off the ground, waiting for the alchemist to secure the woman’s other side. “Nestria, be a dear and tell the healers on duty that they’ve a patient.”
“Yes, Madam Guardian.” Nestria curtsied and, hitching up her skirts, raced out of the arena, whilst the others slowly made their way to the door.
Dylan trailed after them. He could’ve gone back to his quarters. Unlike Mary and Nestria, his healer training had left him with the innate ability to mend any injuries without him having to think on it. All he truly needed was time to recuperate, but the healer in him wouldn’t allow him to leave Mary’s side until she was in the care of those who were better at such magic than he.
Noises followed in their wake as they neared the infirmary. Soft, almost nonexistent, even to ears listening for the sounds; the careful opening of doors and hushed conversation. Those closest to the duelling arena would’ve heard the shield explode and would be curious to know what had caused it. Then again, when he considered how rumour flowed through the tower’s heart like water rushing downstream, they likely already knew of Mary’s experiment.
Come tomorrow morning, everyone would know the woman had failed. Mary would be punished. The overseers were very particular when it came to wasting even a shard of infitialis. Her guardian would likely share a measure of that punishment as well.
Thanks to Nestria, the healers on duty were waiting at the door by the time they arrived. They hustled Mary to a bed, leaving the rest of them to aimlessly linger near the entrance.
“She’ll be all right, won’t she?” Nestria asked the healers.
“Of course she will,” Dylan answered before any of them could. Those few who chose to practise their craft in the infirmary were the best healers the tower had. He’d once thought of joining them—had even trained enough to gain apprenticeship to one of the few masters—until the call of the army started in his blood. “She’ll be wide awake by morning and ready to improve her work in no time.”
“Gods,” Sulin groaned. “I hope not. That woman’s experiments are always costing us a hefty chunk of dog metal.”
Dylan frowned. It was one thing to lose a fragment here and there during a young alchemist’s training, but a piece as big as the shield? “It can’t be salvaged?”
The alchemist shook his head. “Not after a blast like that. Reusing it will only risk having whatever it is used for blow up again. Can you imagine if someone crafted a collar from it?”
Dylan had never seen one of the collars they used up close, although he did know they were made only by the best alchemists. Nor had he ever heard of one exploding, but if the metal was unstable… “Be rather like wrapping a viper around one’s neck,” he murmured half to himself.
“Which is why I plan to insist the metal is disposed of,” Tricia said. “I also think it’s time you three were back in your quarters. The healers don’t need you lot wandering about like abandoned chicks. Come on.” She flapped her hands at them as if they children. “Off to bed with you.”
They turned to obey only to find the overseers standing in the infirmary’s doorway. Not a one appeared the slightest bit harmed. They looked even less amused. Behind them stood Mary’s guardian. Even with much of her face lost in the shadows, the woman’s focus on her unconscious charge was palpable.
“Am I correct that this is your charge, Guardian?
” one of the men asked Tricia, indicating Dylan.
His guardian stiffened at the address. “Yes, sir.”
“We witnessed quite the display this evening,” one of the women said. “It would seem your evaluation of his strength is incorrect. One must wonder if you’ve been paying your charge the proper amount of attention due to him. His years do not grant him full absolution from your watch.”
She bowed. “Yes, madam. I am aware he has displayed a somewhat unusual burst of… That is to say, I have of course been keeping a close eye on his talents. I’m certain you recall how he is most useful in translating the ancient dwarven texts. The hedgewitches are—”
“Enough,” a second man snapped. “However pleasing his skill may be to these so-called dwarven scholars, it does not supersede compliance with the king’s will. If it is discovered you have been deliberately concealing his potential…” His threat trickled off.
Dylan swallowed. He’d never witnessed a guardian being reprimanded, but he had heard rumours. Whispers of spellsters being assigned new guardians with no sign of what had become of the former.
Again, Tricia bowed. No doubt, she’d a better grasp on what punishments the overseers could dispense. “Understood, sir.”
The woman beside the man cleared her throat. “You will inform your charge that, in light of recent events, he will compete alongside the other candidates for the honour of joining the army. You are to make it clear he is expected to report in the arena at midday tomorrow. Refusal will grant him a month’s solitary.”
Dylan’s jaw dropped. Compete? Him? They were actually going to let him compete?
Tricia’s final bow was fawningly low. “Of course, madam. I will ensure he is there.”
“See that you do.” As one, the overseers turned and left.
Mary’s guardian dove through the doorway the instant she’d a chance. She hastened to her charge’s side, demanding answers from the healers before they could give a proper diagnosis.
Tricia sank to the floor the moment the overseers were out of sight. “What have you done, child?” she whispered. “Did it not occur to you that the overseers were watching your every move?”
Dylan wet his lips. He’d not given a passing thought as to how the overseers would see this. But he was now allowed to compete, to have a chance to prove he was good enough to fight in the army. Just like he wanted. “I—”
“Have I not told you enough times that the outside world isn’t safe? Why… why would you do this to me? Was I not good to you?”
Guilt gnawed at his gut. He’d heard of guardians who were harsh with their charges, sometimes brutally so. But whilst she could be strict at times, Tricia had never laid a hand on him. “Mother…”
She stood, seemingly composed once more. Yet she wouldn’t look at him, instead choosing to brush her tunic clean. “Don’t win. If you value your life, you will fail tomorrow’s competition. Have them think this was a fluke and let another be leashed.”
Fail? His pride wouldn’t allow that. “You’ve always taught me to be the best I can be. If I’m competing tomorrow, then I will win.”
Tricia lifted her head. “Yes.” There was pride on her face, but it was small and overshadowed by a haunting sadness. “Then you will die.”
Dawn couldn’t come fast enough. Dylan woke several times during the night. Each moment had him thinking the sun couldn’t be too far below the horizon and, after waiting for what felt like eternity, was proven wrong. After the fifth such turn, he gave up on the very idea of sleep, opting to sneak down to the baths and make use of the tubs whilst almost everyone else remained in their beds.
No one stopped him as he slunk through the tower corridors. There was no one to stop him. Apparently, even the guardians sought their beds after a while. A fact he wished he’d known sooner. A lot of trouble could be made when it was certain that no one watched.
It was a strange experience, entering the bathing chamber without a horde of others at his side. Illuminated only by the single torch he dared to ignite, the ruddy light failed to reach the corners of the room. It made the already cavernous space seem even bigger, but it was more than enough to see by.
He stripped and knelt next to a tub—little more than a wooden half-barrel—to dip his hand into the frigid water. Heat, the prelude to a fireball, radiated from his palm. There were other ways to heat the water, and he was careful to use the more accepted methods when around impressionable children, but this was the quickest.
Only once steam rose from the tub did he withdraw his hand. He liked to bathe when the water was almost too hot to touch and… Well, whenever would he get another chance to cleanse himself like this if he won the competition?
Never. That was the whole point of being leashed. The collar would strip him of the ability to use his power unsanctioned. Those in the army would hardly let him be so frivolous with his magic.
Still kneeling, Dylan set about washing his hair. He bent over the barrel to lather the black locks and rinse them out with a carefully maintained funnel of water, ensuring every drop fell back into the barrel it had come from rather than the cold stone floor.
He stepped in the tub, the water lapping about his knees—it’d been several decades since the last time he could actually sit in these things without his legs scrunched up. The mute coldness of the room nipped at his extremities. He hastily scrubbed at his skin with cloth and soap, warding off the chill by subtly heating the air around him.
The chamber was usually full of sound. The yelling and splashing of boys trying to see who could make the biggest wave out of the meagre water the half-barrels contained, whilst the older ones, often himself included, yelled just as loudly for them to hurry up so they could also bathe. Alone, the gentle trickle of water running down his body and back into the tub seemed almost intrusive.
It didn’t take him long to be clean and dry, his hair helped along by the careful application of a little magical heat applied to the locks. He snuffed the torch and crept back up to his quarters to begin his usual grooming routine.
Dylan cracked open the door to find Sulin awake and partially dressed.
The alchemist swung about, hopping on one foot, the other leg half in a boot. “Dylan? I… I thought they’d called you to compete. Where’ve you been so early?” The elf flopped onto his bed and finished hauling his boot on. “Or did you creep out to make it a late one?”
Wrinkling his nose, Dylan picked up his razor, a gift from his guardian several decades back, and deftly began stropping the blade. It wouldn’t do to attend the arena looking scraggy. “Sneak out after being caught twice last night? Hardly.” His gaze slid to the room’s tiny window. The sky was still dark, but he could see a hint of light on the horizon. “I couldn’t sleep, so I made use of what’ll be the last time I bathe here.”
Sulin frowned as he bent to pull on his other boot. “You are that certain of winning?”
Dylan sat before his dresser and, after igniting the single candle with a click of his fingers, vigorously worked his shaving soap into a lather. “The overseers wouldn’t let me in if they didn’t believe I’ve a decent chance.” There were several spellsters who could claim a similar level of power and combat talent as he. How many of them had made it through the bouts? He wished he knew.
“I suppose that is true.”
“Besides,” Dylan mumbled as he slathered foam on his face, “the person I have to at least break even with at the end is the leashed one.” How hard could that be when she’d have to seek sanction to fight in the first place?
They both fell silent as he started to shave, him due to necessity and Sulin due to finishing his own morning routine. Usually, Dylan would do multiple passes with the razor, ensuring that the parts he shaved were smooth. But his hand kept shaking and his breath would not stay even. One pass would have to suffice for today, lest he do something foolish like accidentally cutting his jugular.
Still, there was one piece his pride wouldn’t let be with a quick onceover
. Dylan drew the candle closer, intent on the little tuft of hair beneath his bottom lip. Was it even? He stared at the mirror, his eyes watering at the strain of keeping them focused. It certainly looked that way.
“I cannot understand why you do not just shave that thing off. Or grow a decent beard like other humans.”
Satisfied with his trimming, he lowered the razor and let his eyes adjust to take in Sulin’s grinning reflection. The elf didn’t share this particular daily routine. He didn’t need to, considering elves couldn’t grow beards. They had hair everywhere else, albeit finer than their human counterparts, just not on their lower faces.
It was a trait Dylan didn’t envy. He didn’t look his age now, shaving only served to make him look younger. As for growing a beard… he’d tried in his mid-twenties and gave up after seeing the scrappy thing that’d attached itself to his face. The little patch was all that remained, all he could reliably cultivate.
With his hands steadying, Dylan returned to ridding himself of the last few pesky hairs that’d surfaced overnight. Tiny black saplings poking out of a hillside that was a rather neutral colour. To call it a lighter shade of beige was being generous. It wasn’t the warm peachy tone of Nestria’s skin, and held not a single evidence of freckling like Mary’s bespeckled face. Although, he supposed spending more than a few moments in the garden could change the latter.
A lot of things about his face were neutral, from his soft jaw to his wide mouth, even the colour of his hooded eyes—so dark a brown, that they verged on black—screamed normal. Only his nose, a rather bold affair, deviated from the norm.
“You know, you will not be allowed to preen like that in the army.”
Dylan twisted atop the stool and glared at Sulin over his shoulder. “What would you know about what they do in the army?” he muttered as he patted the remaining flecks of foam from his face. His stomach made vague mumblings of breakfast. He tried to ignore it. The dining hall wouldn’t be ready to serve them for another half-hour or so.