by J M D Reid
Her fluttering joy was snuffed out again. How many times would she have to tell people the truth? Before she could, Miguil’s eyes flicked past her. She turned to see three individuals approaching from the side of the house, Pharon at the lead, marching with prissy self-importance. His white shirt was buttoned to the neckline, his dark-red coat brushed and gleaming, a black cravat wrapped about his narrow throat. Behind him, motherly Joayne pushed the wheelchair holding Dualayn’s invalid wife across the trimmed lawn.
The butler’s eyes flicked up to the newcomer. He straightened as he reached the wagon, a studying interest flicking across his face. An eyebrow raised in appraisal of Ōbhin. The curiosity in the butler’s face was shown for Avena to see. Pharon was always so prim and proper, more suited to serving at court than the more informal setting of Dualayn’s manor.
Avena missed the old butler, who’d slipped and fallen nearly two years ago, cracking open his skull. His wife, Kaylin the cook, had not been the same since.
“Who is he?” Miguil asked, his voice low, his hands tightening on her waist.
*
The fussy man’s scrutiny had Ōbhin squirming. The gleam in the man’s eyes brought a tinge of warmth to Ōbhin’s cheeks. He knotted the leads around the driver’s seat and, unsure what else to do, slipped down on the other side of the wagon from Avena and her promised. The young man’s glare brimmed with jealousy, a drink from which Ōbhin had once suckled.
“Master Dashvin,” the fussy man said, flicking his eyes up to Dualayn in the back of the wagon. “Who is this man?”
“This is Ōbhin, Pharon,” Dualayn said. Then he turned to Ōbhin. “And I am so sorry, I never got your family name, young man.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ōbhin said. He was certain his family wouldn’t appreciate their name being soiled any further.
“Well, Ōbhin is our new head guard. Misfortune befell poor Ni’mod. Ōbhin, partly to blame, is making recompense.”
“Is that wise, sir?” asked Pharon, glancing at Ōbhin again. “He certainly is a . . . capable-looking man.”
“Dangerous-looking,” muttered Miguil.
“Yes, I do think it is wise,” said Dualayn. “And Joayne, you brought her. My thanks.” The tone of the scholar’s voice shifted. It had softened into a mix of pain and longing.
Ōbhin noticed the motherly woman, her graying hair pulled back into a simple bun. She pushed the wheeled chair holding a wizened woman. She looked decrepit, her hair stringy and gray. She wore a dressing gown, a colorful blanket draped over her lap. Her head lolled to the side, eyes staring sightlessly ahead. A bit of drool dribbled out of the corner of her mouth. She looked ancient, and yet Ōbhin sensed she was younger than the woman pushing her chair.
“I am sure she’s eager to see you, dearie,” Joayne said. She smiled and pushed the wheeled chair forward.
Dualayn grunted as he slipped off the back of the wagon. He smoothed his dark waistcoat then hurried over to Joayne and her charge. He took the wizened woman’s bony fingers and raised her knuckles to his lips. He kissed them with a delicate brush. The emotion in his eyes as he stared at the woman swept over Ōbhin. Pain, grief, love, longing.
“I’m getting close,” Dualayn said before leaning in and kissing a wrinkled cheek. “You’ll be whole soon.”
“His wife,” Avena said.
The young woman had rounded the horses to stand by Ōbhin, her promised groom hovering nearby, still glowering with his too-pretty face. It was almost feminine save for the square line of his jaw.
“She was injured not long after having their son,” said Avena. “Broke her neck falling down the stairs. An inept physician gave her a tonic that destroyed her mind. Dualayn’s poured all his fortune he made from his inventions into finding a cure. It’s how the topaz healers came about. He’s searched for everything. He took her to Roidan three times on the first day of spring so she could be exposed to the miracle of the Healing Staff. It always failed her.”
“So when he found out about ruins uncovered in the midst of the Upfing Forest, he had to find out if there was anything the ancients knew,” said Ōbhin.
Avena nodded, her eyes distant. “We are going to save her.”
“We?”
Her cheeks pinked. “I mean, Dualayn. With my help.”
“Miguil, will you assist Ōbhin in carrying his wounded compatriot up to my lab?” Dualayn said, straightening from his wife. A raw croak roughened the edges of his words. “Avena, we need to ready for surgery.”
“Of course, Father.”
Dualayn gave one last tragic smile to his wife, then whirled and motioned to Pharon as Ōbhin and Miguil headed to the wagon. The younger man had a sullen look on his face as he took the bottom end of Carstin’s stretcher. Ōbhin held the other end and walked backwards up the stairs to the porch. Dualayn led with Pharon carrying the cloth-wrapped Recorder.
Ōbhin studied the pale face of his friend. A tightness grew in his chest. The White Lady’s harmony sustained him. For now. But it wouldn’t heal him. Could Dualayn’s skills do it? A desperate ache filled Ōbhin. If he could save this one man, would it wash the stains from his gloved hands? Could anything take away what he’d done to Taim?
I robbed him of his future, Ōbhin thought. Is there anything worse to do to a man?
No. So what did that mean for Ōbhin? Could any act create harmony in his song? Was he forever condemned to an unbalanced life? If so, what was the point?
I can’t undo my actions, but I don’t have to resonate with that Dark Tone. Ni’mod is another life lost because of my actions. Now not just Carstin is depending on me. I have these people to protect.
A resolve swelled through him as he passed through the manor house’s ornately carved doors. They were decorated with the seven gems, the hexagonal topaz at the pinnacle of the star they formed, the only one bisected by the divide between double doors. An older guard leaned against the jam, his eyes studying Ōbhin with a dark expression. He had swollen knuckles he caressed with a callous thumb.
“Go right,” said Miguil. “Around the stairs.”
Ōbhin nodded. A grand staircase dominated the center, climbing up to the second floor. The walls were covered in plaster painted stark-white, the floor polished stone reflecting Ōbhin’s shadowy form. He rounded the flaring bottom of the staircase, the banister a dark gleam of smooth wood. They passed an open door with a corridor leading from it. A woven carpet, decorated with an array of the seven colors in geometric patterns, ran down the center of the hallway. Dualayn stopped at a stout door, its brass knob heavy, a lock above it.
“The maids have entered once a week to dust it under my supervision,” said Pharon from behind. “Nothing was disturbed, per your instructions, Master Dashvin.”
“Of course, of course,” said Dualayn.
He produced a heavy iron key from a pocket in his waistcoat. He thrust it into the lock. A loud click echoed around Ōbhin. The door lumbered open with a ponderous weight. Diamond lamps burst to life, shedding artificial light with a steady glow no lantern could ever hope to match.
“On the central table,” Dualayn said. “I will do my best, Ōbhin. You have my promise.”
Ōbhin nodded as he stepped into the room. The floor was dark stone, the mortar aged. The walls were unrelieved, not matching the plaster walls of the entry hall. Locked cabinets, all made of heavy oak or other hardwood, lined the wall. The table was also made of heavy wood, though covered in a white sheet. One wall had a workbench with the delicate tools of a jewelchine engineer laid out precisely, coils of metals from cheap zinc to expensive gold lining the back end. Opposite it was a vault door, round and made of a large sheet of dark iron, a knob in the center marked from 1 to 100.
Ōbhin had heard rumors of safes lacking keys, the latest defense against the ever-growing skills of thieves and burglars.
“Yes, yes, right here,” said Dualayn, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Gently, gently. We do not want to stress your friend more than necessary.”
>
Miguil and Ōbhin set Carstin’s stretcher down with ease. Miguil’s glower softened when he stared at the injured man. He glanced at Avena as she strode in, her fingers unbuttoning the cuffs of her blouse before rolling them up her arms.
“Ōbhin, we’ll save him,” Avena said, her tone brusque, eyes focused.
He nodded.
“Pharon, if you would show Ōbhin to suitable quarters,” said Dualayn. “I fear we’ll be at this for some time.”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Pharon, a slight touch of a smile on his lips.
Ōbhin nodded, his hands rubbing together, leather rasping on leather.
“Miguil, attend to the master’s horses and belongings,” Pharon said as he placed a hand on Ōbhin’s arm and tugged gently.
As Ōbhin looked back at his friend, Miguil’s flinty gaze met his. He sighed and glanced at Carstin’s pale face. He hoped for his friend’s recovery. A small deed performed in a dark world. Then he was led away by Pharon.
“I’ll put you in the old head gardener’s room,” said Pharon. “He quit rather suddenly. It has a lovely view of the grounds.”
Ōbhin only nodded.
“Meals are prepared three times a day. Servants have a small dining hall off the kitchen. Madam Kaylin does not appreciate those who miss her meals or think to wander into her kitchen at any hour to find food.”
Ōbhin absorbed the information as they left behind the ornate main house for the servant wing. His boots echoed on the unrelieved stone. They passed narrow doors until Pharon stopped before one at the end of a small corridor. He produced a ring of bony, iron keys and thrust one into the lock.
“Your copy of the key is found on the wardrobe,” said Pharon as he ushered Ōbhin inside. “You are responsible for tidying your room. The maids will collect the bedding once a week for washing. If you need anything from me, do not hesitate to ask.”
“I’m fine,” Ōbhin said, crossing the room to the heavy curtains. He threw them open, the tension tightening across his chest.
A massive hand squeezed him. Would Carstin survive?
He hardly noted Pharon’s exit. Ōbhin studied the grounds, what he could see of them. To his right, he caught a glimpse of Lake Ophavin. The ground sloped from his window to the brick fence. A postern gate, narrow and unguarded, breached the wall almost directly off the side. It led to a hill cloaked in patches of thick bramble, perhaps blackberry. Small, yellow flowers dotted the thorny tangle. The broad canopy of an oak tree, its leaves the deep green of spring, shaded the hill’s bare crown.
He thought he spotted movement beneath the tree. His eyes studied it while the tension grew and grew. Fear for his friend played between his shoulders, small pinpricks not unlike the feeling of being watched.
Aliiva, let your nurturing song sustain Carstin, he prayed, black-clad hands clasped behind his back.
Chapter Nine
“What do you need me to do?” Avena asked as Pharon led Ōbhin from the room.
Dualayn closed the primer he’d received from the White Lady and set it beside the cloth-wrapped Recorder lying on his wooden workbench. He turned and faced her. “Start water boiling for the anesthetic. I’ll mix it.”
“Of course.”
Eager to help Carstin, she whirled, her heeled shoes squeaking on the smooth floor. She marched to one of the unlocked cabinets and opened it. Inside was a heating plate, a coil of cast iron on a porcelain plate. A ruby jewelchine, wrapped in cheap tin, sat in the center. She sat it down with care and brushed the activation button on the side. A hum ran through it. The gem flared with a fiery brilliance. A dark blush grew in the iron.
As Dualayn mixed herbs with a pestle and mortar, she fetched out a large, glass beaker. She went to the washbasin, its ceramic spout set with an aquifer jewelchine. She tapped the right spot and a stream of water slimmer than her finger gushed from the jewel.
It’s a pity larger sapphires are so rare, she thought while filling the beaker. How much water they produced, or how much a topaz could heal, was a function of their size. It limited both how much power it held and how big the effect it created. Her eyes flicked to the cloth-covered Recorder. She’d never heard of gems so large, let alone entwined around each other with such perfection.
What other secrets would they find in it? The ancients had mastery of the jewels, so all the stories said, before their hubris had awakened the Black and shattered Elohm’s harmonious Colours. Those persisting legends had inspired the re-discovery of jewelchines nearly a hundred years ago.
As the water filled the beaker, she noticed Dualayn adding wolfsbane to the concoction. She frowned. “Father, are you adding the right herbs?”
“We’ll need to put him deeply under, child,” Dualayn said, not pausing in his grinding. “Wolfsbane will render him in a deep coma for the level of surgery we’ll be performing.”
“Surgery?”
“Yes, yes, we’re going to implant topaz healers throughout the body. It’s something my colleagues are experimenting with in the Democh Empire. The Recorder makes reference to something similar. There are nodes in the body that can be . . . manipulated by jewels. I think. It’s very interesting research. Carstin is the perfect candidate for the procedure. Whatever the White Lady did, the harmonics cannot last forever. We must take advantage of them to push forward the bounds of healing science.”
“Okay.” Avena blinked at the possibilities. Healing jewelchines pressed against wounds could do wonders for infection and sped up the knitting of bones and the closing of wounds.
She finished filling the beaker and placed it on the now cherry-red coil of cast iron. Heat radiated from it, burning with the same intensity of a campfire. Water hissed as a few drops splashed on glowing metal. Soon, bubbles formed along the inside of the glass and vapor rippled out of the top. It came closer and closer to a full boil as Dualayn finished his mixing. He grabbed the poppy oil from the cabinet and rushed over.
“Mix these in as soon as it’s boiled, child,” he said. “I shall fetch our stock of topazes.”
She nodded.
He twisted the combination dial on the vault’s lock then opened the heavy door. Curiosity always itched at her to see the riches that must be placed in there. She would never steal from Dualayn, but she wanted to see such a dazzling collection of jewels. He bought many of them, particularly topazes, for his research or for constructing devices to keep his estate funded. He emerged with a handful of the orange gems, each wrapped in a precise way with gold wires to facilitate their power. It wasn’t just the gem, but how they were cut and bound with the wire. There were so many different ways to wrap them up, and you never knew the effect until you did, though Dualayn had theories.
With tongs, she pulled the beaker from the heat. She mixed in the bitter concoction of herbs and the poppy oil. She stirred with a metal rod. The concoction darkened almost black before lightening to a brown as the various chemical reactions occurred. A sweet scent brushed her nose; a heady sway rushed through her.
Across the sea, the Tethyrians used poppy to make white dream.
She placed the concoction back on the heat, letting the water boil down to concentrate the effect. Then she sterilized the surgical tools with wood alcohol, dipping in each before wiping it down with a clean rag. She set them on a white towel, each scalpel, tong, and spreader gleaming. They were all made of the new stainless steel coming out of the factories, a remarkable metal achieved only with the power of ruby furnaces.
It took an hour before they were ready and the anesthesia had cooled enough to be administered. She shoved a funnel into Carstin’s mouth and poured it in while Dualayn peered at his pocket watch, the second hand ticking away as the last of the brown liquid vanished into his gullet.
Dualayn thumbed back an eyelid.
Avena always had a nervous rile to her stomach before assisting a surgery, and today was worse than most. Carstin was so weak. They would carve him up to save his life. It seemed cruel but was necessary. Healing somet
imes caused more pain to the patient, more suffering, but the alternatives were worse.
She wouldn’t let him die.
“Let’s begin, child,” Dualayn said after ten more minutes.
She used scissors to cut away the bandage on his leg while Dualayn made the first incision down Carstin’s chest. Blood oozed out. The sight didn’t affect her any longer. She had seen a dozen or more surgeries, inured to the necessary infliction of harm. A calm fell on her, a bit of that emptiness lurking inside of her swelling though her soul. She didn’t feel any emotions in it.
Just like when Mother had forced Evane’s face into the whitewash. Detached.
“Sponge up the blood,” Dualayn said, his hand steady as his cut drew down the abdomen.
“Yes, Father,” she said, her voice monotone. She picked up the cloth and wiped up the blood, the warmth soaking through her fingers.
In moments, Dualayn completed his incision, forming a forking branch, and began exposing the ribs and internal organs. She studied them, noting their appearance, looking for any sign of damage, any bleeding that needed to be controlled.
Dualayn inserted the first jewelchine when he glanced at Carstin’s chest. The exposed ribs, wrapped with bloody muscles, didn’t rise or fall. Concern flicked across Dualayn’s face. He thumbed back Carstin’s eyes, peering in them intently. He leaned over the patient’s mouth to feel for a breath.
Concern flitted across her emptiness. Worry for the patient.
Dualayn straightened and shook his head. “He was too weak. The White Lady sustained him, but it left him with nothing else. Shock must have finished him.”
Disbelief slammed into her and drove back the emptiness. She drew in a shuddering breath as grief and frustration welled inside of her. He couldn’t be dead. Not after all their care to get him here. Not when he’d survived for so long.
She clutched the rag with blood-stained hands.
“No!” she shouted with anger, marching up to him. “We’re not giving up.”