Her head flicked left and right, desperate for an exit. Spotting the mouth of an alleyway, she pushed through the crowd recklessly. There were some cries of alarm, but she didn’t care. She needed openness, space––anything outside the cacophony of the plaza.
July burst out from the edge of the crowd, stumbling and falling to her hands and knees. Immediately the cool breeze of the empty alley soothed her struggling lungs, and she panted heavy, labored breaths. It was miraculous relief––never mind how she would find Mel again, or how she would traverse the city. Those were things she could worry about when she felt like herself again––like a human again.
Footsteps echoed down the dark path, their instrument obscured by the shadows of the leaning buildings. After they grew close, they ceased altogether, and a cruel voice rang out.
“Well, well. What do we have here? A young sir, down on his luck?” The operator of the voice stepped into the thin shaft of light, revealing a pale, bruised young man, all edges and bones. But the look in his eyes was hungry––more so than the wild dog, more so than the bandits. July was still powerless but to gasp for air.
“Oh––not a sir at all. My apologies, madam, the dim light plays tricks,” The pale man continued. He didn’t sound sorry at all. He stepped closer, one bony hand reaching into his jacket. He produced a thin, crooked knife––not unlike himself. “This isn’t a place for ladies, you know. You meet some sleazy folk in places like this. Right fucked ones, I’m telling you.”
He was practically on top of her now, and his hand reached out to meet her doubled-over form. With sick gentleness, his spindly fingers wrapped themselves around her neck, lifting her to a standing position and pushing her against the alley wall. July felt fear of an entirely different sort to the crowd fill her. If that was fire, this was water––and she was drowning.
“Do you want to know the best part of all this?” He asked, his eyes disturbingly large in his gaunt face. He placed the tip of the knife on her stomach, poking her through two layers of clothing. She bit her lip to avoid crying out. “I don’t even want your money. I just want to see the life leave your eyes.”
July could feel his grip on her throat tighten, but before he could get any farther, a silhouette filled the mouth of the alley, blocking off the already dim light. A stern voice came with it.
“Kenton Roth, if you draw so much as one drop of blood from that young lady, I will personally make your life a living hell.”
The voice of her savior seemed to physically move the gaunt man with its force. His death grip of July’s throat faltered, and she seized the opportunity, wedging her knee between their bodies and shoving outwards. The man was propelled back, and, sensing his advantage to be lost, he turned tail, fleeing into the depths of the alley.
The silhouette sighed. “You watch a kid grow up, and you think you know him.” He seemed to continue that thought internally, but offered no more.
July straightened up, squinting her eyes to get a better look at the man. He was an older fellow, his hair turning early silver, but his back was straight and his shoulders strong, showing none of the decay that age generally brought. His eyes were jet-black, as was common in Aslatan folk, but his skin was much darker than the norm. Overall, he commanded a sense of respect, and July did not hesitate to supply.
“What is your name?” The workings of the man’s voice were almost gong-like in their rumbling depth. It reminded her of her grandfather.
“July,” She responded shortly. She felt an inkling of cautious fear after what had happened, but saw no reason to begrudge the man her name. Even that little inkling was washed away as an infectious grin took his expression.
“Like the old Angelish calendar,” He pondered. “I had a grandmother named July.”
“So did I,” July agreed. She couldn’t hold back a smile; the man had a sense of mirth about him when he wasn’t smiting thieves and pariahs.
“You may come with me, July, until we can find the party you arrived with. I assume you didn’t come alone?” He asked, offering his arm. July, eyeing the crowd, took it without complaint.
“Yes. I mean, no, I didn’t. I came with a woman,” July explained. “Medium height, blonde hair. Tan jacket. Her name is Amelia.”
The man’s grin widened. “You don’t say?” When July nodded, seeming confused, the man continued, “We may be looking for the same person. I am expecting an old pupil of mine named Amelia.”
July looked up at the man with almost comical surprise. “You’re him? Judas?”
The man laughed his deep, bellowing laugh, and then nodded. “Judas Bachman, at your service.”
CHAPTER FIVE
TEA WITH BACHMAN. THE CURE.
Mel held the teacup to her lips, sending ripples cascading across the tea’s surface with her breath. She closed her eyes and let the hot drink pool in her mouth, savoring the flavor of the valerian root. She swallowed gently, and the warmth in her stomach set her at ease––exactly what she needed after the incident that afternoon.
She turned to look at July, who sat next to her at the table that occupied most of the tiny apartment’s kitchen. July watched Bachman move from shelf to table to counter with a sort of admiration that Amelia remembered keenly from her time apprenticing under him. Understandable, Mel supposed, sipping from her cup. A person is apt to imprint on someone that rescues them from danger.
July’s eyes flicked over to see Mel watching, and then returned to the table, cheeks flaring with guilt. Mel thought about saying something, but decided that the ordeal in the alley was a formative experience on its own, and turned her attention to her former mentor.
Judas scurried around the apartment in a manner completely contrary to his hulking, powerful presence, leafing through loose papers and lifting piles of books to read titles. Mel was familiar with this routine; the state of the apartment, which resembled the site of a localized, miniature tornado, required it.
“This is it!” Bachman bellowed, yanking a book bound in green and gold from a pile of similar tomes. The pile toppled to the floor, but he took little notice, placing this volume gently on the kitchen table. “’Plagues Through Amoran History’, by A. L. Calcifer.”
Mel lifted the book’s cover, savoring the creak of the binding––herbalism was a lot of reading, and that suited her just fine. The pages were dusty and yellow, and the ink faded, even though the pages were not particularly well thumbed. That went a long way in showing the book’s age.
Bachman flipped with practiced finesse through the thick book until he reached a chapter entitled ‘The Sleeping Mountain’. Then he turned the book towards Amelia. “You can read it more in depth yourself, but I will summarize for the time being. A hundred years ago, villages in the mountainous regions of Warden suffered from a ‘dreamless sleep’ where no villager woke for a period of months.”
“The symptoms are the same?” Amelia said without looking away from the pages. She skimmed through the paragraphs, searching for familiar terms. Dreamless sleep…pale, damp skin… restricted to the mountain regions… nearby monastery… no conventional medicines showed any effect.
“As far as I can tell. The event isn’t well documented, so the author, Calcifer, makes a lot of inferences,” Bachman explained. Mel looked up, and saw what she needed to see in Judas’ face; the answer to the problem, in terms of a name or recipe, wasn’t recorded. Her heart fell a little, but she continued to skim the pages. “The only specific figures mentioned in the text are the monks of the Way of Shina. Calcifer, being the physician and alchemist of the Saint Shina Monastery, was quick to boast about how ‘the Monastery’s apothecary held the solution’.”
“So write a letter to Calcifer and ask about the magic potion that woke up the villagers,” July offered, having given up on the tiny scrawl of the text long before.
“Medicine isn’t magic, July,” Amelia said, barely hiding her impatience, “and nobody calls it a potion anymore.”
Bachman was more receptive to the sug
gestion. “I tried to get in touch with Calcifer, but the Way of Shina has a doctrine of isolation––they don’t accept correspondence of any kind.”
Mel leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. “So what you’re saying is, there’s a chance that Calcifer won’t even be there when I arrive, or if he is there, he might not have the cure.”
“Hold on, who said anything about going all the way out there?” Bachman waved his hands in a back-pedaling motion. “Warden is practically uninhabited past the capital. You’ve made some wild journeys, Amelia, but that’s one I’d bet against.”
“You said they don’t accept correspondence. The only way to reach Calcifer is in person,” Mel countered. “I have no choice.”
The argument was cut off by the door swinging open, knocking over a short stack of books. A woman stepped in, closing the door behind her. She was short, curvy and of fair complexion––entirely antithetical to Judas Bachman, save for the pitch-black eyes they shared. She shrugged off her shawl and coat, and joined the group in the kitchen.
“Amelia!” She practically sang as she spotted the doctor. She wrapped her arms around Mel’s shoulders from behind, in a standing-to-seated embrace. “It’s been so long!”
“It’s a pleasure to see you, Lin. And you’re right, it’s been too long.” Mel smiled awkwardly through the hug. July grinned at her, and Mel responded with a leering eye. “Lin, this is July, my escort for the trip here. July, this is Lin, Judas’ wife.”
“For now,” Lin said soberly. July’s expression turned to one of dark surprise, sending Lin into a gale of cackles. “I’m only kidding. He’s lucky to have me, and he knows it.” Bachman, who was taking a well-timed sip of tea, did not disagree.
“It’s nice to meet you,” July said, suppressing her own laughter.
“I’m afraid I have to kick you all into the living room so I can start dinner,” Lin informed them, closing Calcifer’s text and handing it to Judas. “If you can find it under all those books, there should be a couch to sit on.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lin and Judas were kind enough to spare their unused guest room for the next couple of days. Amelia, anticipating a further journey ahead, decided to stay in San Della to prepare, and by guild code July was obligated to keep watch over her until her original errand was complete. Code aside, it wasn’t every day one travelled so far from home, and she decided she should do her best to enjoy it.
At least, that’s what Ma would say, July lamented, looking out the guest room’s portly window. The view was nice, at least––row upon row of stone rooftops, threading an elaborate maze of corridors. Nice, but slightly staggering.
July turned her attention back to the sword on her lap, running a cloth along the length of the blade’s flat surface––the fuller, she remembered. The cloth was damp and dark with oil, which settled on the blade appreciably.
“July!” Amelia’s voice intruded from the living room, breaking her trance-like care routine. “I’m going to the market again. I forgot to get spearhead petals from the apothecary. Do you want to go?”
She shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair she had dragged into the center of the room, one hand still tracing the edge of the fuller absently. “No, I’m okay here. Thanks for asking,” She called back.
“You’re sure?” Mel asked, farther away now.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” She reported, wondering if this was a lie.
“Okay, I’ll be back before sundown.” Then, the sound of the front door opening and closing, leaving July alone again. She sighed and turned back to the sword.
There was a knock at the guest room door. July knew she had a tendency to lose track of time, but that couldn’t be Mel again, could it? She would’ve heard the front door.
“Yes?” She said. The doorknob rattled, and then the door swung open, revealing Lin Bachman’s glowing face. “Oh, Ms. Bachman. I didn’t realize you were still home.”
“I move like a rabbit. Even the warrior girl can’t hear my footsteps,” She nodded sagely. July smiled in return, if only because she didn’t know how to respond––Lin was cryptic and weird, in a pleasant sort of way. “You’re not out with Mel?” She added.
“No, I…” July fished for an explanation, but found none. “No.”
Lin nodded once more, seemingly taking in the state of the guest room. Her eyes probed July and her sword. “If you polish that sword any more, you won’t be able to see it at all.”
July sheathed the blade and placed it aside. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What I mean is you’ve been polishing that sword for two days now. I haven’t seen you leave the house once; you’re like Judas and his research papers. Worse, even––Judas takes it in his mind to go play cards with his bar friends every now and again.” July began to speak, but Lin cut her off, apparently not finished with her tangent. “You are a fighter. You cannot tell an old woman that you prefer the peace and quiet. Judas might believe that honky; Amelia might even fall for it, distracted as she is; but not Lindell Bachman.”
“You’re not old,” July mumbled, lost for a reply.
“You flatter me,” Lin flashed a smile, but grew serious again. “I am old; but not so old that I don’t remember moving to San Della. I grew up in the countryside––I don’t suppose they teach you much Aslatan geography over there in Amora, but this beautiful province of Lhordan is mostly countryside. The clearest memory I have of moving––except for meeting Jude, of course––was how big everything was. Big buildings, big districts, big ideas; everything was so massive to me.” Lin perched on the edge of the bed, and July turned to follow her. “Pardon me, dear, I get tired these days, especially when I start gabbing. Anyhow, what I’m getting at is I think you’re feeling the same––out of your depth.”
July nodded carefully, acknowledging the feeling with the caution of a man sneaking past a snake. “I guess I do, yeah.”
“It’s the crowds, isn’t it?” Lin prodded. July worked to hide her surprise at how easily the core of the issue was exposed, but knew Lin saw through her, and she gave up. “I was the same. Close your eyes, warrior girl.”
“My name is July,” She reminded the woman.
“Shush. Close your eyes,” Lin scolded. July did so, feeling a little silly and more than a little vulnerable. “Clear your mind. It should be easy for a fighter like you––like balancing. Clear your mind, and see yourself in a wide, open field; tall grass swaying in the breeze; a blue sky, dotted with perfect white clouds. Are there flowers in this field?”
“I––I don’t know,” July was taken off guard by the question. “I guess?”
“Don’t guess,” Lin chided. “Are there flowers in the field, yes or no?
“Yes,” She said defensively. “Big flowers. Yellow ones, with brown centers, and lots of petals. Sunflowers.” Like at home, she finished in her head. Suddenly, the field felt very real––July could almost feel the grass tickling her sides, her fingers dusted with grass dye and golden pollen. The sun caressed her face, and a pleasantly warm wind threw her jacket against her.
Lin was probably smiling, but July had no way to tell. “Good. See yourself in this field, in the flowers. Breathe in, and out.” Lin breathed audibly, and July followed her lead. “In, and out. The next time you’re in the middle of a bustling crowd, and you feel your anxieties begin to close in, imagine yourself in this field. And breathe.”
July continued to breathe for another moment, enjoying her imagination. She hadn’t felt so relaxed since losing Mel in the crowd, or arriving in San Della––since leaving home, if she was honest with herself. She welcomed the sense of peace back into her life. When she finally opened her eyes, smiling gently, the little old woman was already gone.
“You’re right, Lin. Rabbit feet,” She called out.
A cackle drifted down the hallway.
CHAPTER SIX
ROYALTY IN SAN DELLA. OF EYES AND LIGHT.
Knock-knock.
Judas Bachman was not a morning person by nature. He was a night owl, burning the candle long into the twilight hours to read his tomes and prepare salves and droughts for his handful of patients. The night prior was no exception––as indicated by his robed form, draped over the kitchen table, snoring violently into a thick, musty book.
Knock-knock.
He slowly retreated from the table as the noise tore through whatever thin layers of sleep he could cobble around himself in such an uncomfortable position. Rubbing his eyes, he looked out the window; the position of the sun was too low for his liking.
Knock-knock-knock.
“Patience, sir. Give an old man time to stretch,” He growled irritably, standing up. Feeling no inclination to reward the call of such an impatient morning-disturber, he stretched luxuriously, taking in the crisp morning air through the open windowpanes. Then, settled as he could be, he shuffled over to the door.
The sight of the morning-disturber––disturbers, he amended––stopped Bachman in his tracks, wiping the early grumpiness from his face.
“…Amelia?” Bachman called back into the house, “I think you have visitors.”
Mel, an early riser, heard the urgency in Judas’ voice and came quickly. She paused when she got a glimpse through the front door, but took his place in the doorframe all the same. “Good morning, gents. Can I help you with something?”
Planted in the Bachman’s front entryway were two soldiers, dressed head to toe in the distinctive Lhord armor––red chainmail beneath leather plates, with golden trim. Red to hide the blood, a dispirited soldier had told Mel during her first year in Asla. Gold to soothe the man who thinks he’s disposable––and right he is. The shorter and younger-looking of the two soldiers held up a sheet of paper and began to read.
“The presence of the physician and alchemist Amelia Saul–” The soldier looked up from the letter. Mel nodded, and the man continued, “–is requested at the private estate of the Governor of our province of Lhordan, on behalf of the Bal’Lhord Prince.”
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