by Loren Walker
* * *
Yann’s voice hovered at the edge of her sleep. She lifted her head a hundred times that night, shoulders stiff with anticipation, certain that she heard a summons from her master. But there was nothing but the four plain walls of her cell, and slow-moving shadows.
Dawn came. The clouds lay heavy in the sky, but the Communia was awake. Feet sloshed through puddles outside her window; rain bounced off the brims of hats. Some would be in the meditation center, she knew, searching for insight; she could imagine the rise and fall of their breathing, the gentle hum in the back of their throats. The smell of wood burning came next: fires in the kitchen. Her stomach growled.
Sydel sat up in bed. No. She had to make things right first. She was such a mess the previous night, she recalled with embarrassment: working in her nightgown, hair wild around her face, acting so rashly. She had to remind Yann of her potential.
So she took her time braiding each section of her waist-length, copper-brown hair, winding it into knots and pinning it, just as she had done every day for the past two years. She chose her most mature outfit: loose trousers and tunic, with embroidery, faded from washing, but a cool, soothing blue. As she scrubbed her face with cold water, worries pressed into the back of her head. Would Yann pretend that nothing ever happened? Would he still be furious?
Finally, Sydel left the women’s barracks, making her way through the courtyard under a woven bamboo parasol. Heads swiveled as she passed. Voices quieted. She chose to focus on the gates ahead. The residents had questions: of course they did. They would never ask her directly, though. They hadn’t spoken to her in two years.
There were no strange silhouettes on the plains anymore: no smell of gasoline, no sound of engines, just purple sky, red rocks and patches of gray-green vegetation. Sydel licked her lips and made her way up the stairs of the clinic.
Yann rose as she entered, his face drawn with fatigue. The overhead lights were dim, as if the bulbs were just as exhausted. The floor was clean, all the spilled instruments put away. The patient was in the little twin bed in the corner: pale, bandaged, strapped to an intravenous unit, hair combed off her face.
“Good morning,” she said, unable to think of anything else.
“She’s stable,” Yann said curtly. “Wound is repaired. I’ve given her pain medication.”
“And the respiratory distress?”
“Nothing to be concerned with.”
Doubt billowed in her chest. Last night, the woman was turning blue; she saw it. He wasn’t telling her the truth. But Sydel forced herself to nod.
Yann sighed, his hands pressed to his lower back. “Monitor her blood pressure and heart rate,” he instructed. “Keep her comfortable. Meds to a minimum. Change the saline when the bag runs out.”
“And if she wakes,” he added. “Don’t speak to her. Come and get me, immediately.”
Sydel gathered up her nerve. “What about the man from the night before?”
“He won’t be back.”
But what if he did come back? What if the man came through the doors, and there was no time to call for help? If a threat appeared, she should be prepared, shouldn’t she?
“They’re mercenaries.”
The word surprised her, as did his candor. “Mercenaries?” She looked at the woman, lying under the clean white linen. She’d never met a criminal before.
Oddly, Yann wouldn’t look her in the eye. “I shouldn’t have even let either of them in,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Sydel. But we must resolve this, and get her out of here as quickly as possible.”
“Do you know him, master? Or who she is?”
Yann shook his head. “I’ve known people like them.”
How? she longed to press him. When? Before you took me on as your ward?
He lifted a finger to emphasize his point. “Remember, if she wakes….” He let his words trail off.
“Yes, sir.”
“I will relieve you at sunset.”
“Yes, sir.”
This is an opportunity, she reasoned, staring at Yann’s retreating back, and swallowing her questions. This is your chance to make him proud.
Growing up, Yann’s attention was all she craved. Though her legal guardian, she was raised in the children’s ward with all the other offspring. The supervisors met the children’s needs, kept them all clothed and fed, educated and healthy, but with little warmth, or tolerance for idle chatter. Even a few minutes of Yann’s undivided attention were precious; he was never affectionate, and there wasn’t much conversation, but he looked her in the eyes and he listened when she asked questions.
When she turned ten, he told her the story of their arrival: how he discovered the Communia, deep in Midland; how the community took them in and became their unexpected saviors. He was a medical student from the east; she was an orphaned baby, placed into his care. Excited by his confession, Sydel let out a flurry of questions about her parents, how she came to him, why they had to hide. But the man only flinched, and went silent. Then he sent her away.
When she was twelve, Sydel announced her Jala path: she would become a physician, just like Yann. Small, bony, and shy with other people, she took care of stray animals in the plains: birds with injured wings, rabbits with twigs stuck in their throat. Such a commitment meant moving past her social anxiety, but she was confident in the choice. There was a barrier between Yann and the people he treated, she noticed; there was medicine, and solution; little sentiment, but great respect.
His response: books and assignments, diagrams and diagnostics, lectures late into the night. She was finally of interest to him, and she eschewed the few friends she had to study, to memorize, to fix the walls of her path. And when she turned sixteen, Yann made her his apprentice. Granted permission to move into the women’s ward, she finally had her own space, away from all the chatter and gossip. She had a role to fulfill, a destiny to manifest. To her, the clinic was a beacon of light; every time she walked through its doors, she knew she would gain the respect of the Communia, and find peace and fulfillment on her chosen path.
Inside the clinic, the day stretched on. The patient perspired, though she bore no fever. When Sydel sponged down the woman’s arms and legs, the woman never woke. And when Sydel wiped the sweat from the woman’s eyebrows and upper lip, the dark colors remained. Permanent? It made her look so ghoulish. Why would she choose to look like that? She wasn’t much older than Sydel, maybe in her mid-twenties. Could she really be a mercenary? What did that mean?
She thought to the books she’d memorized: tales of pirates and marauders and ancient knights. From what she knew, a mercenary was a violent person, who could be hired to injure or steal or kill; someone void of values, despicable to the core. She thought about the very tall man, and shivered. Were they rival criminals? If so, why would the tall man bring the woman to the Communia?
She had no idea. She didn’t really understand how things worked in the world outside of Midland, other than what she’d read in books. Sydel had never left its borders; only Yann made those trips to Daro, the capital city in the North, hundreds of kilometers away, in the old ground rover to make supply runs, or for medical emergencies. His stories were always grim: stabbings and robberies, callous, judgmental, cruel people. It was his responsibility, he told her, to secure what the Communia needed on his own, without putting anyone else in danger. No one seemed to mind his decree.
The woman shifted in her sleep. The corner of the sheet rose, revealing her bandaged rib.
Yann’s words pricked at Sydel’s ears. Nothing to worry about.
Sydel drew her chair closer. Then, slowly, she peeled away the gauze from the woman’s wound. Underneath, sterile strips held the gash together. It was as Yann said, she noted with dismay, just a wound: no signs of infection, or anything to suggest a reason for respiratory distress.
Pretty lucky, she thought, to glance off the bone like that. What was it like to be shot?
The woman moved again. A
soft moan rose from her throat, and under those dark lips, her teeth grit, so hard that Sydel could hear the squeak of molars.
Sydel quickly replaced the bandage. But the woman continued to writhe, back and forth, her blue eyebrows angled. Her eyes fluttered; Sydel caught sight of the irises underneath, a strange gray-green color. One hand lifted, clawed at her chest, leaving behind pink trails. Sydel put her hand over the patient’s, holding it back. The woman’s palm was rough, her fingers calloused, and strong.
Her heart thrumming, Sydel checked the saline drip. Still active. Pain medication, then? But Yann told her not to do more than the minimum, and hours remained until the next dosage.
Her mind turned back to the previous day, and those blue fingertips. Something else was wrong, she knew it; something was still in the woman’s body, constricting her.
Could she run blood tests? Yann might be angry, but if she could get the results before his return….
Her hands were hot, still gripping the woman’s fingers.
They were burning.
The world blurred.
She couldn’t take in a full breath, like the lower half of her lungs refused to expand. But an image rose in her mind’s eye: black and twisted threads, woven among red spheres, strangling, choking them, splitting them in two. Then a sharp, nauseating smell: chemicals, the strange smell of the woman’s clothes from the previous night. And the black threads were moving, rolling away from the red, as if pulled by a violent force. The red spheres doubled in size, swelling with strength. And Sydel was on fire.
Gasping, Sydel jerked her hand away. Her vision cleared. The patient was quiet in her bed. The walls were white and familiar.
Sydel stared at her hand. There were no threads inside. But her palm pulsed, like a heartbeat. Like a snake undulating under her skin.
She ran.
Bracing herself in the doorway of the clinic, Sydel shut her eyes and gulped in breaths.
Be calm, she told herself, rubbing her burning palm against her tunic, wiping away the sensations.
It’s nothing. It was a dream. You’re exhausted.
When she opened her eyes, a man was staring up at her. The stranger from the night before.
She shrieked.
The man held up his hands, backing away. The light hit him; he was dressed in gray and brown wool layers, his head shorn to the scalp. His brown face was smeared with sweat and sand, but his eyes were bright. “I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to know if she’s here,” he begged. “Is she alive?”
Her hands clasped over her mouth, Sydel forced herself to calm down and assess the facts. Her eyes swept over the man: he was tall, yes, but he was also wide, and his voice was different, younger, and rougher. It wasn’t the same man from the night before.
“Please,” the man said. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
He opened his right hand, revealing a handful of coins. Sydel gaped at their bronze etching, their harshly cut ridges. She’d only seen actual rana a few times in her life; Jala Communia functioned on credit, and purchases were made on-site only…
“I know it’s not nearly enough,” he apologized. “But we’ll find a way to pay you back. Just do whatever it takes to keep her alive.”
What was wrong with her? Yelling in his face like a child; she had to compose herself. The man shifted from foot to foot. Anxiety billowed around him like a cloud.
“Tell me your surname,” she managed.
The man shook his head, his full mouth twisted to the side. He kept looking over his shoulder to the hills beyond. Sydel followed his line of vision. There was nothing on the horizon, though several eyes were fixed on them; the residents of Jala Communia were lingering by the gates, watching their exchange. And if she opened her mind just a little, Sydel could hear their disdainful thoughts: Look at his clothes. Look at his face. He’s from the North.
She flashed back to the encyclopedia in her room; Daro contained the mining and manufacturing centers of Osha, but also high rates of poverty and criminal activity. And the coastal area was one of the impact sites of the meteor, so many years ago that shortened the borders and created the skerries…
She shouldn’t be speaking to him, the taunts continued. She should know better.
That made Sydel bristle. They had no right to judge her. She was only eighteen, but she was still a medical professional. She could speak to whomever she liked, regardless of where they came from. “Well, I’m Sydel, the medical apprentice here at the clinic,” she announced, louder than necessary. “And we offer charitable healing to the public. There is no cost. She’s inside, stable, and sleeping.”
The man slumped with relief.
“And you don’t have to tell me your surname,” she offered. “But your given name?”
It took several seconds for him to mutter: “Cohen.”
“And her?” she tried.
“Phaira. Her name is Phaira.”
Sydel straightened her shoulders. This was an opportunity. She could give Yann valuable information, if she did this correctly. “I need to know what happened before the - accident.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “Accident?”
Sydel searched for the right words. “Did some - action - prompt Phaira to - get shot?” She flushed at her awkwardness. “I’m sorry, I’m not saying this right.”
The man ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know what happened,” he muttered through his palm. “Or where she’s been, or what she’s been doing. I haven’t seen her in months.”
He glanced at her, wary. Gray-green eyes, she realized with a start, that same eerie color as the patient’s. Were they related?
But the whispers from the tunnel were growing louder. She had let this go for too long. When Yann found out what she was doing…
“You need to come back later,” she whispered. “When my master has returned.”
“Your master,” Cohen repeated, a strange look on his face. Heat rose in her face. Was that the wrong word?
“Later,” she instructed. “Sunset.”
The look on his face made her heart hurt.
“I’ll make sure you can see her,” she added. “Okay?”
His face brightened.
She hoped she could keep her word.
II.
Sydel paced the clinic floor and practiced her story. Yann must know by now about the new arrival; word spread so fast in the community. But it wasn’t the original tall man, she reasoned. This was something wholly unexpected. She had resumed her duties immediately afterwards. And the patient hadn’t woken in her absence. She would remind him of those facts when he came through the door, before the first accusation flew.
The room grew darker. He’d sworn to return and relieve her at sunset. So where was he? Should she seek him out?
Standing in the doorframe of the clinic, Sydel shielded her eyes and searched for any sign of Yann. She couldn’t quite see over the walls into the courtyard, but there was still some activity there: residents finishing up their tasks for the day, heading for the kitchens for dinner….
“Sydel!”
To her shock, it was Cohen calling, waving at her as he trotted into view. “Hey, it’s me, Cohen! Remember, from earlier? Is Phaira awake? Can we see her?”
We. The word struck her.
Then Cohen’s companion appeared. Slighter in build and inches shorter, the new stranger’s blond hair was shaved on the sides, the fringe flopping over his forehead. Glasses hid his eyes from view. He wore the same layers of dull wool as Cohen, but his clothes were sizes too big, sleeves hanging over his hands, trousers rippling with every movement of his legs.
Sydel’s heart hammered so hard that she put a fist to her chest.
“Stop.”
The men froze at the command.
It came from Yann, who finally emerged from the courtyard, his face flushed, his jaw tight. Sydel gripped the doorway, uncertain of whether to step outside or withdraw.
Yann cli
mbed the stairs to the clinic. Sydel watched the strangers. Cohen’s eyes were big, his shoulders stiff, like he feared a reprimand. The blond man had no reaction. Though far smaller than Cohen, he had an air of authority. He spoke first, his voice quiet, but sharp. “You in charge here?”
Yann stood in front of Sydel. “I am. And you are?”
“Renzo. We’d like to see our sister now.”
Sydel couldn’t hide the surprise from her face. Sister?
“Of course,” Yann said.
Sydel’s mouth dropped open. So did Cohen’s. The blond man merely nodded.
Sydel stared at the back of Yann’s balding head. He was so masterful at hiding his thoughts from her. She never had a hint of his inner workings. But she didn’t mishear; Yann’s tone was respectful, and welcoming.
“Gentlemen,” he gestured at the door. “Please come in.”
Sydel flattened her back against the wall. Cohen bound up the steps and into the clinic, flashing her a quick, bashful smile as he passed. Renzo was slower, visibly limping on his right side. As he rocked his way up the stairs, she saw the lines on his face; still young, but weathered. He smelled like metal and smoke. He didn’t look at her, before disappearing inside.
“Sydel.”
She turned to her name.
“Supper is ready. Go and eat, and then retire. Thank you for your service.”
Yann’s clipped tone gave her no room to protest.
But even as shame colored her cheeks, she made a vow as he swept past her.
She’s my patient, just as much as yours. I won’t just give up.