by G. P McKenna
My mother lowered her hand and shrugged, “I’m just wondering, did they have to numb your asshole to shove that stick inside?”
To Heston’s credit, all he did was blink spastically. “Yes, I’ve heard you are like this,” he said when he finally spoke, “it is an outrageous thing to say, though if you cannot refrain from insults, do dispose of them now. You will not speak in such a manner before our Princess. She is the last remaining heir to the noblest bloodline in existence. She deserves your utmost respect.”
“She is not our Princess, Butler,” Kira looked down her nose as she towered over the portly man, “we are from Bethel, where respect is earned. Especially my respect. Nobody earns it on account of accident of birth. I will grant your Princess the exact same common courtesy I’d grant to any stranger.”
Doctor Kira Escamilla had never granted a stranger any common courtesy that I’d witnessed. Heston seemed to sense this, for he stared at my mother with a reddening, determined face, but it was like watching a feather tickling a Poota’s butt and expecting it to budge. They stared at each other, neither making a move to compromise until there was a knock on the door. It was quick and sharp, but it was enough to break Heston’s resolve. He wiped a hand over his sweaty brow before returning three precise knocks.
“You may enter.”
The room was much larger than should’ve been possible for a tent and an immensely circular table was placed at its centre. In the largest seat at the table, with her back towards a carved ivory statue of a swan, a young woman sat clad in ceremonial armour.
“Your Highness,” Heston said cordially with a deep bow, “Doctor Kira Escamilla of the Republic of Bethel and her daughter are honoured to make your acquaintance.” When neither of us made to bow, Heston cleared his throat and made a downward motion with his hand. Sighing, I picked the hem of my dress up and curtsied. Kira snorted.
“Shut up,” I hissed.
“Apologies, my lady.”
Heston’s face went red, his cheeks puffed out. “Doctor Escamilla, I insist-”
“Heston,” the woman rose from her chair, though her face remained calm, “thank you for the kind introduction, but you may leave us,” she inclined her head at Ramsey who was leaning against the wall, “you all may leave us.”
“But Your Highness,” Heston spluttered.
The Princess smiled fondly, “I assure you that no harm shall befall me, Heston. Lady Ilana will remain to guard me.” A pale figure appeared by her side, as if dispatching from the seams of reality itself. My breath catching in my throat was the only thing that prevented me from gasping. If each feature of the woman’s face were taken apart for individual evaluation, flaws would’ve been found in each. Too sharp, too full, too angular, but together they each balanced the other to make an impossibly picturesque beauty with long, toned limbs and hair of pale flaxen silk that would’ve stopped any man in the street, and more than a few women.
Had it not been for her eyes.
My mother stiffened, and the Princess smiled. “May I introduce Lady Ilana Lukasiak of Goonawarra Valley, my most trusted advisor and the free leader of my Ilvarjo.” she indicated to the woman, who looked out with a distinctly bored expression. Her eyes were not what I’d been expecting. Oh, they were red alright, but not the bright red that would burn bright in the dead of night like the legends had promised. They were a deep shade of scarlet that might’ve appeared brown in certain light, like spilled wine or, indeed, blood.
“No need,” Kira said, “We’ve met before.” That was enough to draw my attention. The good doc was glaring with undisguised distaste as if the Ilvarjo had just told her general infirmary had been cancelled. That was news to me. Many times, and often against my will, Doctor Kira had told me the stories of her days as a field physician, but never once had she mentioned meeting an Ilvarjo. It was an outrage. No, it was ridiculous. It was…confusing, for when I looked back at the Ilvarjo, really looked, there was something in her face, her eyes, the way she held herself as the tight grey uniform clung to her body, that was vaguely familiar.
“Honestly?” The Princess asked. She looked at the Ilvarjo, who nodded once. The Princess smiled, “you must tell me that story someday soon, but for now,” she moved from her chair. Her armour had been made to be impressive rather than functional and it twinkled in the torchlight. Polished to perfection, the ivory had been carved to depict the seals of each Ascotian race, her swan most prominent of all upon the chest piece. I’d learned long ago that appearance was of the utmost importance when dealing with dignitaries, and the Princess was a vision with her pretty face and lean figure found only amongst those who led highly active lifestyles or engaged in regular crash dieting. She floated closer, coming to a stop before us, “I have a proposition for you, Doctor Escamilla.”
“It’s Doctor Kira,” the good doc corrected automatically, “and I think that goes without saying, hence us being here and all.”
The Princesses laugh tinkled, “that’s no longer a proposition, that is agreed upon. You are aware from our correspondence that my former head physician has been forced into early retirement. We miss him dearly each day. However, that is not the sole reason I asked for you. It’s because you are also a renowned professor of medical arts. You see, Doctor Guises and I had an agreement I would like to continue with you.”
Kira tapped her foot, “Princess, renowned professor or not, I’m not a miracle worker. If your medical personnel are not trained there’s only so much I can achieve in a war zone.”
The Princess smiled, “Doctor Kira, I speak not of my physicians. You will find them adequately trained. I’d like you to teach me.”
Kira raised a brow, “have you run out of party plans to oversee or something?”
“Doctor, I’m sure you can appreciate that overseeing plans is not enough,” the dainty quality to Amicia’s voice was replaced with a more husky tone, “sitting in these fancy rooms, talking to fancy people who make everything difficult, is not enough. I must be able to help my people in a more substantial way. I’m trained to fight, yet neither my guard and Ilvarjo ever allow me close enough to battle to be of use. Your hesitation is understandable, but know-”
“Alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Kira said, “I’ll teach you.”
“What?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The first was me, the second the Princess, who stared at Kira with equal intensity.
“I’ve never turned down anybody willing to learn, and I’m not about to start now. Though I cannot promise success” Kira explained with her hands on her hips, “but there are conditions.”
“Of course. Anything.”
Kira adjusted her spectacles, “You will treat each patient who comes to you for help as an equal. You will show no favouritism. Agree, and I will teach you all I can.” Never had she had such conditions, her rules usually limited to ‘jump before I say jump’ and ‘mess up the tonic cabinet and die’. I glanced at her face, but she didn’t look back, her eyes trained firmly on the cold, unblinking ones of the Ilvarjo.
My mother had to stay behind for some sort of introduction hoo-ha with the other physicians. It was easy to tell who had the pleasure of working with her before. They hung back, pale and fidgety, while the rest bounced in to greet the good doc with wide-eyed eagerness
Deities save them.
That left me trying to make my way to the infirmary that was to be my new home alone. Or it would’ve had Princess Amicia not linked arms with me on the way out, almost giving me a heart attack right there on the floorboards. I looked around for the Ilvarjo woman, hoping she’d come rescue me by pulling the Princess away, but she was nowhere to be found.
Deities save me.
The servants flattened themselves against the walls with their heads down turned as we passed, as if afraid to touch their Princess even on accident. If she noticed, she didn’t say. In fact, she said nothing at all as her cornflower blue eyes examined me with the oddest of expressions, as
if looking at me physically hurt.
Unable to meet her gaze, I looked over my shoulder at the two guards following only feet away. I hadn’t even heard them approach. They wore identical bodysuits of grey, made from some sort of light leather I couldn’t identify, with only dark tabards to protect them from the elements. Their faces were obscured by tight face masks and thick hoods. The only distinguishing feature on either was their blood red eyes. And even they were identical.
The Princess mimicked my movement before growling and making some complex movement with her hand. The Ilvarjo fell back, and Amicia’s eyes were back on me, her red-painted lips frozen in a small smile. It was only once outside of the tent did she speak, “it’s Kilco, correct?” Odd to think she’d been clutching me like an old friend without knowing my name. I nodded, “since we will be working together, call me Amicia when alone. It’s only right.” She didn’t even allow me to respond before pulling me into a tight hug which stretched on longer than any hug between strangers should. When it finally ended, Amicia pushed my hair off my face. Tears welled in her eyes and she cleared her throat, “we’re going to be the best of friends, Kilco. I just know it.”
The way she said that didn’t make her friendship sound like a good thing.
Four
Ancraophobia
Fear of the wind
“Careful. To the left. My left. Careful, care-” the cart tipped over spilling tonic vials, herbs and other healing products into the mud. The supervising medic exploded, “what part of careful do you oafs bloody not understand?” he shrieked at the sheepish apprentice healers who’d been pushing the cart up the bumpy road, “you’re useless, the bunch of ya.”
It was difficult not to smirk at the ridiculousness of the tiny medic berating the six strapping young men into submission. Had it been any other day I might’ve stayed to enjoy the spectacle with a laugh. But not that day. That day I had better things to do.
Leaving them to their theatrics, I followed the rainwater filled wheel tracks in hopes they would lead to the infirmary, but honestly, it would’ve been impossible to miss even if I’d walked blindly. By the river, in the far corner of the camp, a small field had been cleared. Once it might have been grazing land for wildlife, but recent activity — namely an army on the move in need of firewood — had widened it considerably. An outpost of tents had been erected, the most imposing of which had a blue caduceus stitched into its canvas roof. If that wasn’t enough proof that I’d found my people, the white aprons being worn by the people lounging and smoking in the outdoor mess hall would have been.
Doctor Kira was going to have fun here.
I received a few looks as I walked through the field towards the big tent but paid them no heed. It was best they didn’t know who I was until they could be introduced to the boss.
Inside, rows upon rows of metal beds had been set up and almost all were occupied. Pained cries, the moans of the mortally wounded, and the soothing of a scrubbing brush invaded my ears. I inhaled deeply. The scent of cleaning chemicals and blood, mixed with something earthy that covered the more offensive smells was home, right there in a foreign country. Something cold and moist tickled my face, and I looked up. A piping system ran the length of that large central room, spurting out cool, fresh air. We’d have to get something like that for the clinic in Bethany. The good doc would love it.
Sighing, I leaned down to adjust the strap on my pack, only to jump back with a yelp when a dark hand shoved itself in my face. “Sorry, did I frighten you?” a sweet voice asked.
No, that’s just my native greeting. Rolling my eyes, I glanced up at the dark-skinned girl with the curliest hair I ever did see standing before me, her hand still dangling in my face. I took a step back, shaking my head. The girl smiled, “that’s good. I’m Melly Parkins.”
“Kilco,” I gingerly place my fingers into her hand, “Kilco Escamilla.”
“I know who you are,” the girl, apparently named Melly, said as she grasped my fingers in a crushing grip, “I’m a big fan of your mother. Her research into quick-absorbing tonics is unmatched anywhere in the world.”
“She knows.”
The girl released my poor fingers and took a step back, still smiling brightly, “I’ve been awaiting your arrival all week. I was personally handpicked by Doctor Guises as his apprentice, and with his untimely retirement, Deities bless him, I’m hoping that Doctor Kira will accept me as hers. I swear that half the medics here claim to have trained under her, and they are among the best I’ve seen. Even if she won’t accept me, to work with her would be an absolute privilege.”
She said that with such pure conviction that all I could do was smile and massage my fingers. My mother was going to eat her alive.
It’s been said that it takes sixty-six days for new routines to become habitual. I lasted eleven. Melly Parkins made it too easy to fall back into bad habits. When Doctor Kira said jump, Melly’s feet were already back on the ground, her knees locked to go again. She was a hard worker and a keen listener, ready to take on as many patients as she could. She would’ve tried to cure the entire infirmary single-handedly if we’d let her.
And I would’ve let her.
Within days, Doctor Kira was trusting her with tasks she’d never even entertained letting me attempt. Within a week, Melly was well and truly the backbone of the infirmary, and though Kira berated and insulted her more than anybody else, there was a sense of pride when the ‘stupid girl’ succeeded. She took the time to talk her through the intricate stitch or troublesome drain. In every way, Kira watched Melly closely, which in turn left her less time to loom over me.
Every morning I rushed through my duties— emptied bedpans, changed bandages, drained abscesses— before announcing that I was off to study and sneaking out the back door.
The refugee camp was a weird place. The wind seemed responsible for everything there. It blew unseen doors open-and-shut, open-and-shut, all day long. It made the tall grass wave from behind trees, whispering in words that couldn’t be heard. At sunset and near dawn the sound of dogs barking, howling, and snarling beaconed on its call. I asked the man on the porch of the ramshackle supply store what set them off, and he’d quickly replied, “there ain’t no dogs nowhere around here, Miss.” After that, the dogs were all I heard. But no matter how weird the camp was, the people who resided there were even stranger. They were all the same people we had at home, but it was as if the cultures had been flipped.
I’d gone searching for mushrooms one afternoon, the putrid yet fragrant odour of decaying russala drawing me to the riverbank. Where mushrooms had grown once they would again, I figured. I was wrong. The river flowed calm and steady in one direction, occasionally rippling in the wind or breaking against the pebbled bank. Oaks hunched there from old age, their moss-covered branches kissing the mirrored surface like the tentacles of an ancient water monster slowly clawing their way to the other side.
I’d leaned over the balustrade of a rickety wooden bridge to drop a pebble into the deep waters below. It seemed to splash for minutes. Frogs silenced, flies stopped buzzing, even the rip went still as the small stone was swallowed. Then, it was thrown back. A head of fuzzy brown hair poked up from the waterline, with what I assumed to be a frown — it was hard to read motion on such smooth skin — as its amphibian-like nostrils flared. I lowered my eyes to their peach chest, flat and utterly devoid of human characteristics other than its basic shape, and examined the gemstones covering it.
The Mariquil in Bethel wouldn’t be caught dead covering their gills in pretty stones. They were free spirits, a result of the abundance of gingeweed they smoked. They spent their nights moving from pub to pub, hydrating themselves on dragon spit, and strumming those mystical instruments that could be heard only underwater. The Mariquil of Ascot, however, were pompous asses of the highest order. Their rudeness seemed directly correlated to the number of gems covering their body, and this one was bejewelled to the stars. It scoffed, holding the seaweed tome in its hands cl
ose before spitting a mouthful of water at my face.
I avoided the river after that.
One place I didn’t avoid was the gate of the Ilvarjo camp. As the apprentice of the head physician, I had access to all areas of camp but never could work up the courage to walk inside. Instead, I sat across the path, picking the petals off blossoms and listening to the jingle of wind chimes while watching them come and go. Most dressed in uniform — bodysuit, tabard, mask, bandages, hood. All in grey, all blonde, all red-eyed. It was like watching clones coming and going, but not once did I see their leader again.
Until a morning came where I’d been coerced into reorganizing the storage room. Doctor Kira had a very particular order to how things had to be organized, and apparently the apprentice healers were all idiots who didn’t know a cotton bandage from a compression one, so that left only me. I was busy wondering why the blazers we had a crate full of left socks when the good doc stormed in, huffing and puffing. “I can’t deal with this shit today,” she’d spat, flinging herself atop of a crate while digging into her pocket for the silver case that held her cigarettes, “I’m too close to retirement to lose my license now. You have young blood. You deal with them.”
That hadn’t been a request.
I heard him before I was even halfway down the hall. A contagious laugh bellowed from the central room, so loud that a few patients were covering their ears when I stepped inside to find the flawless Ilvarjo standing beside the largest Poota I had ever seen. Tall and muscular, the horns curving out high above his brow must’ve each weighed more than a cart. Blood dripped from a cut to stain the heavy bangles weaving their way up his beefy silver arm, but he didn’t seem to care in the slightest as his head was thrown back in a fit of laughter that wiggled his pointed ears and white beard. Whatever he found so funny the Ilvarjo didn’t share his amusement as she watched on with a bored expression, picking listlessly at her perfectly neat braid.