by Raymond Cain
“By the way,” Flynn asked. “How did you find me?”
“With this,” Tasker replied, removing a crystal compass from a pocket in his kelp trousers. “You left it behind in your room.”
Flynn stared wide-eyed at the aquazite sphere in Tasker’s hand. His mother’s words about the compass pointing at people shortly before their death echoed in his thoughts when he observed the needle inside.
The compass was pointing directly at him.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Are you ill?” Tasker asked. “You’re pale, gray, sweating. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were dying.”
“I’m fine,” Flynn said in as reassuring a tone as he could muster. In truth, he’d felt steadily worse since his fight with the Azuran and he wondered if he had been poisoned. “I just need some sleep.”
“I think you should see the herbalist. Your symptoms are consistent with—”
“I’m fine!” Flynn snapped, then regretted it. He was fatigued, his head was pounding, his chest ached, he had chills, and, according to the compass, he was about to die. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I feel terrible. Maybe going to the herbalist isn’t a bad idea. I’ll head there now.”
“What’s that book?” Tasker asked, eyeing the journal in Flynn’s hand.
Flynn had forgotten about his parents’ journal. At first, he had every intention of showing it to his brother but after the compass pointed at him, he no longer thought it was a good idea. He didn’t know how Tasker would react after learning what the compass did.
“It’s from the Citadel. Just a school book, that’s all.”
Tasker raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Anyway, I’ll see you later,” Flynn said with a forced smile. He turned to leave but his brother stepped between him and the door.
“Even my smiles look sincerer than that,” Tasker said.
Flynn chuckled. “How would you know? I don’t think you’ve ever done it before.”
“Perhaps not, but if I did, it would have appeared more genuine.”
It was an uncharacteristic display of concern from his usually unemotional brother. “I’ll be fine, Tasker. I’m sure the herbalist will give me something that tastes terrible but works great. I’ll see you later.”
Tasker looked on with concern as Flynn walked away. He returned to his room, changed out of his dirty clothing, and tossed the dirt-ridden tunic and trousers in a water golem along with a small bar of soap. Next, he removed his kempcloth shirt and tossed it into the construct. The golem churned, dissolving the soap and turning white from head to toe. In moments, the construct regurgitated the clothes onto his bed, clean and dry.
After selecting a pair of blue kelp trousers and a white kempcloth shirt from his stone dresser, Flynn looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were sunken, his skin was pale, and his chest wound looked worse than ever. Black streaks spread out from the bright red wound edges, traveled across his chest, and rose to the base of his neck. He’d never seen anything like it before and it terrified him.
When Flynn agreed to see the herbalist, it was mainly to appease his brother. But after seeing himself in the mirror, it was sinking in how sick he really was. If his mother was right about the compass, the wound would kill him unless he found a way to treat it. He donned his clothes and hurried out of the house.
By the time Flynn reached the main gate, he was already fatigued. As he plodded along, he was so distracted he failed to notice a dirty water golem step in front of him. It was using oversized feet to clean the streets and Flynn stepped into the golem and splashed out the other side before he realized it was there. The construct reabsorbed the dirty water that splashed out of it and shook its muddy fist at him.
“Gross,” Flynn said, spitting out muddy water and grains of dirt.
As the path led him to the cliffs towering over Lowercity, Flynn relied heavily on liquid handrails for support. The cool water comforted him and he looked down over the city. The Lift was on its way up and he mustered what little energy he had to reach it in time.
There were three people on The Lift and Flynn guessed by their dark hair and luxurious clothing that they were members of the Rocknugget family. The first was a young girl wearing a robe of aquazite-enriched water enchanted to hold its shape. Next to her stood a teenage male wearing lanternfish coat and trousers; every scale glowed bright enough to make him difficult to look at.
“Pathetic,” Flynn muttered, revolted by the thought of so many lanternfish killed to make an outfit that glowed for only a few days.
Flynn groaned when he realized the third person was Titus Rocknugget. The boy’s large frame was garbed in tight-fitting inkskin crafted from the hides of deep sea turtles. All three Rocknuggets wore their family insignia, a golden fist smashing a rock, prominently on the left breast of their garments.
When the platform reached the top of its ascent, a water bridge extended to connect it to Uppercity. The liquid handrails on the platform and the cliff edge merged together, creating rails over the bridge. Flynn kept his head down as he crossed, hoping to escape Titus’ notice. He stared through the water as he walked on it, pretending to appear interested in the streets far below.
Titus rammed his shoulder into Flynn’s side, knocking him over the side of the bridge. Flynn grabbed onto one of the liquid railings and dangled over the one-hundred-foot drop. The people below looked as small as insects and his eyes widened in fear.
Titus looked down at him and laughed. “Watch where you’re going, Arcturus.”
The other two dark-haired siblings laughed with Titus and the trio walked away without so much as a backward glance.
Ordinarily, Flynn would have had no trouble pulling himself back up onto the bridge. But in his weakened state, he lacked the strength. He looked down at the buildings and tried not to think about what would happen if he fell.
The liquid railings drooped where he hung onto them. His fingers were losing strength and the rail he held onto thinned and felt ready to split apart. He changed his hand position to a thicker part of the railing but with each passing second, the strength in his fingers ebbed away.
Flynn thought back to the crystal compass. Perhaps it wouldn’t be illness that killed him, it would be a fall. Hanging on was agony and the idea of letting go and accepting his fate was sorely tempting. If he did, he might see his parents again. All he had to do to make that dream come true was let go.
Flynn snarled, angry at himself for his moment of weakness. He summoned every ounce of strength he had and swung his leg up onto the bridge. He used his foot to help pull the rest of his body up and he shimmied under the bottom rail. He rolled onto his back and lay on the water bridge for some time, too exhausted to move. Eventually, he got up to his feet and stepped onto The Lift platform. He pulled a lever, retracting the bridge, and sat down with his back against the railings.
Once The Lift reached the bottom, Flynn slowly made his way to the Marketplace, a merchandising area in the west side of Lowercity. It was filled with crude, centuries-old buildings constructed from gray stone during Seahaven’s early days. Each structure was simple, but ornate, and every wall had beautiful images etched into them. If one took the time to study the buildings, they told stories of the first families in Seahaven. The establishments were decorated with the struggles and accomplishments of his people and Flynn found the crude structures to be far more beautiful than the elegant spires and castles in Uppercity.
The Waterway stood between Flynn and the Marketplace and the distant murmur of customers and merchants rose as he approached. He hopped onto the first chunk of ice that came near and nearly fell when it gave an inch as he stepped on it. He was dizzy from his illness but he maintained enough of his senses to keep his footing and before long, the ice carried him to the outskirts of the Marketplace.
The air smelled of spices, seafood, and flowers. The streets were busy with shoppers carrying kelp bags or seagrass baskets full of fruit, plants, tools, and other trinke
ts. When Flynn passed by a bakery, the scent of freshly-baked pastries made his stomach rumble but he forced himself to keep walking.
The herbalist store was a plain stone dwelling save for the ornate designs etched in the stone walls. Above the door there was a leather sign, crafted from the tanned hide of some underground beast, and HERBALIST was burned into it. Below the word there were pictures of herbs and ointments.
Flynn opened the door and the powerful scent of spices and powders drowned out the smell of baked goods outside. Shelves of jars and bottles stood against the walls, flanking a large stone counter at the back of the store.
A middle-aged, portly woman wearing blue kelp trousers and a pink kempcloth shirt stood behind the counter. She had frizzy brown hair tied back in a bun with curls hanging down the sides. She was dusting off jars of seeds and powder containers with a white rag.
“Welcome,” she said with a warm smile, putting down her rag. “Can I help you find anything?”
“I have. . .” Flynn wasn’t sure how to describe his illness. “An injury.”
“And a fever, by the look of you,” she agreed. “If a wound caused it, I have a salve for that, and bandages to keep the salve in place. As well as some herbs for the fever.”
The herbalist removed two small jars and a bandage from one of the shelves. She turned to face him and halted, taking a closer look as though seeing him for the first time. The woman’s facial expression changed to one of curiosity and concern. “Do you have any other symptoms?”
Flynn gulped, reluctant to share the strange things he’d been experiencing since the attack. “I’ve had bad dreams. Nightmares, really. And I’ve been seeing and hearing things. . .”
“Show me the wound,” the herbalist said in a serious tone. She put down the jars and marched toward him, grim-faced. “Let me see it.”
The woman’s sudden change in demeanor was alarming. Flynn untied the collar on his shirt and he opened the V-neck wide enough to reveal his chest wound. It was redder and more swollen than before. Even worse, the black streaks radiating from it spread across his entire chest, down to his abdomen, and up higher along his neck.
The herbalist gasped and put a hand up to her lips. “Who did this to you?” She stared intently at the wound with a horrified look on her face. “What did this to you?”
Flynn hesitated, unsure of how much he should tell her. “Well, I. . .”
“It doesn’t matter,” the herbalist said, cutting him off. She put her jars and bandages back on the shelf. “These won’t help you. Nothing in this store will help you. You should just go.”
Flynn re-tied the collar on his shirt. “What? Why? I came here for help.”
“And I told you I can’t help you. I can help people with physical ailments but yours is not something I can treat. It’s a spiritual problem, not a physical one.”
“You recognize it?”
“I’ve read about people that have suffered symptoms such as yours. The outcome is. . .” she paused, searching for the right word.
“Is what?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
Flynn walked toward her and she held out her hand defensively, silently telling him to stop. “Tell me,” Flynn said.
“You have a few days to live. At most.”
The words rocked him. He was short of breath and his stomach felt like it was full of stones. “What? There’s got to be something I can do.”
The woman backed away from Flynn as though being near him might infect her with the same condition he was suffering. “There’s one person you could go to, but it might sound absurd.”
“Who?”
“There’s a spiritualist that frequents the Marketplace. She has tattoos all over her body and she wears. . .”
“Yes, I know who you mean. Everyone calls her ‘the crazy lady.’”
The herbalist shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yes, she’s a tad unconventional. . .”
Flynn snorted. “Unconventional? She claims to see people’s auras and speak with the dead.”
“But,” the woman continued as though she was not interrupted, “she does seem to have knowledge in spiritual matters. For a situation like this, I can think of no one else to turn to.”
Flynn slumped his shoulders in resignation and backed away from the herbalist. He clung to the hope that she was wrong but the seriousness of his condition was weighing heavier with each passing moment. Deep down, he knew the symptoms he was experiencing were not natural. Azurans were known for “walking with one foot in this realm and one foot in the next” and if there was any race capable of poisoning his spirit, it was them.
It seemed his only option was to turn to a crazy woman for help and the thought slumped his shoulders even more. He left the Herbalist’s shop and wandered through the Marketplace. His eyes drifted down to the red cobblestones as he plodded along the busy streets, oblivious to the commotion of patrons and vendors around him.
The sound of grinding metal caught Flynn’s attention as he neared the Blacksmith’s shop. The blacksmith, a burly man with the largest forearms Flynn had ever seen, was sharpening a sword on a grinding wheel. Unlike the grinding wheels used centuries before, it did not require a pedal to make the wheel spin. The stone wheel floated in aquazite-enriched water, enchanted to spin the wheel on command.
“EEEEEEK!”
A woman’s scream tore through the air. It came from the opposite side of the street and, surprisingly, it came from the woman he was looking for. She wore long strips of purple silk that did not quite hide strange-looking symbols that were tattooed all over her entire body. Her black hair, streaked with silver, was tied into three braids and those were woven into one larger braid. Her eyes locked on his and she had a pained look on her face. She clasped her hands over her ears. It was unusual behavior, even for her.
Flynn remained still as he stared at her, unsure of how to respond. After some hesitation, he took a step toward her. She ran away and Flynn ran after her. She slipped through the crowded streets with ease while Flynn pushed people out of his way as he went. Panting heavily, it was all he could do to keep up.
In time, Flynn caught up to her in an alley. He tackled her to the ground and she flailed in his grip. He tried to grab her wrists to control her until she reached into her silk wrappings, producing a thin dagger. She pressed the dagger against his throat, forcing him to release her. They both got back to their feet, her dagger not leaving Flynn’s neck for an instant.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Flynn said. “I just need your help.”
The woman winced, as though being near him caused her pain. She pressed her dagger harder against his throat and he felt the wetness as blood dripped along his skin. “Slicing your throat is probably the best help I could provide to someone in your condition.”
“You know what’s wrong with me?”
Her eyes widened the way people’s eyes widen when they realize they inadvertently revealed a secret. She looked down at his chest, directly at the wound concealed beneath his shirt. She looked him over and Flynn got the feeling that her eyes were following the streaks across his neck and torso, all of which were hidden.
“Yes, I know what’s wrong with you,” she said with a sneer. “And killing you would be a mercy.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Flynn grabbed her dagger hand and pressed the blade even harder against his throat. “Do it. Or put the knife away.”
She sniffed derisively and removed the dagger. She returned it to its hiding place in her silk wrappings and eyed him warily. Her gaze repeatedly dropped toward his chest wound.
Flynn wiped a smear of blood from his neck. “What’s your name?”
“Arlayna,” she replied in a loud voice, as though she were trying to talk over noise. She winced and stuck a finger in one of her ears. She rubbed vigorously, as though something was causing her ear distress.
Flynn made a patting gesture with his hand, urging her to speak quieter. “Mine is Flynn Arctu
rus. Why do you look like you’re in pain?”
She cupped both ears. “Can’t you hear that?”
Flynn listened. All he heard was the murmur of people talking and shopkeepers working. “Hear what?”
“Your soul is screaming, Flynn. It’s in agony. It can’t take much more before it leaves you entirely. And then. . .”
“And then what?”
“And then, you become an empty shell and go insane.”
Her words struck Flynn like a punch in the face. “How do I fix it?”
Arlayna looked at him curiously, as though she were looking through him instead of at him. “You’ve been hearing things? You’ve had visions?”
“A dead man spoke to me. Twice. And he looked at me. And I’ve had nightmares.”
She nodded as though the answer came as no surprise. She grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled it aside, exposing the black streaks on his skin. “Who did this to you? And what did he use?”
Flynn looked around to ensure nobody was listening. He leaned close and whispered, “An Azuran, the captain of a bone ship. He stabbed me with a clear crystal but after it pierced my skin, it started to turn black.”
A horrified look passed over Arlayna’s eyes but she quickly masked it. “I’m sorry, Flynn, but there’s nothing I can do for you. There’s no nice way to say this so I will have to be blunt. You only have a few days to live and I suggest you enjoy them as best you can.”
It was the second time in minutes Flynn was told he was going to die but this time he wasn’t depressed; he was angry. “NO! I don’t accept that. There’s got to be something I can do.”
Arlayna looked as if she was about to speak but she looked down instead, avoiding his gaze.
Flynn could tell she was hiding something. He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her against the wall of a store behind her. “What is it you’re not telling me?”