She was not so involved in the memory that she neglected to notice the way the door slumped against its frame, nor the deep cracks running through the panels around the rusty doorknob. She pushed the copper key into place and twisted, but the door was already open.
Inside the clinic, the soft orange light of a fire flickered in the dark. A hot streak of fear boiled her insides.
Her heart pounding like a chariot of horses, Mel crept along the wooden floorboards, eyes fixed on the doorway of the examination hall. Distantly, even knowing that it violated her ideals, she wished Julius were there, sword in hand. He would have been a comfort––an assurance that, if there were no peaceful solution, there could still be a solution. For the second time that year, she felt a fissure forming in her peaceful spirit. She kept moving.
In the narrow examination hall, the rows of beds cast long shadows against the walls, outlined in the warm light of the fireplace. To her frantic relief, the beds were still occupied; each person laid exactly where she had placed them, arms at their sides, faces ghostly but peaceful. The only shadow the beds did not account for was that of a man sitting in a rigid wooden chair, staring intently into the embers. From her spot across the hall, Mel could only make out a red jacket and short, jet-black hair, but she knew his identity all the same. Her suspicions were confirmed; Prince Bal’Szukin had found her.
Moving in what felt like ethereal silence, Mel approached the fireplace, periodically crouching in the pitch-black pockets of shadow behind the infirmary beds. She got much closer than she expected she might––almost two-thirds of the room’s length; but years in the clinic had taught her that the floorboards were not her friends. Just as the figure had started to come into detail, a long, vulgar creak betrayed her presence.
Szukin whipped around. His eyes darted around the room, still blinded by the intensity of the flame in the gloomy building, then settled on Mel. For a fraction of a second, his face curled into a snarl of pure revulsion, but with obvious effort he composed a mask of civility. It was startling to watch––like seeing a statue twitch out of the corner of your eye.
“Doctor Saul,” He said. The rasp of his voice was out of touch with the youthful, almost handsome features of his face––bottled venom, she thought. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Szukin,” She acknowledged.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“So I see.”
“This is quite a lovely little town.” He lifted the chair out of the way, clearing the path between them, then stepped towards her. She kept the distance even, searching her periphery calmly for something she could defend herself with. “I wouldn’t have even known it were here if your friend Bachman hadn’t pointed me towards it. ‘Along the path to the capital, then east, towards the Glass Sea’. Vague, but he wasn’t in a good way by that point.”
“You’ve talked to Bachman, then,” Mel said. She felt guilt in the throes of her mounting fear, but she elected to ignore them both for the time being.
Szukin smiled, revealing a hint of yellow teeth. “You could call it that, yes. Our conversation in Aja was cut short, and then you simply dropped off the map––so you left me no other choice.”
“You had choices. I am not the only doctor on the continent––not even the only one to work with the Amoran Council,” She countered. She backed into the edge of a bed with a hard knock, and Szukin practically lunged forward, cutting her off from the aisle. She was stuck in a corner, wall at her back and the prince at her face. He took another sharp step forward, knocking her into the wall. She felt movement in the dark. Then she was paralyzed by a deep, hot sting in her hand, which leapt up her arm in pulses, like fire flickering in her veins.
“I’m no fool,” He whispered, still close. “You’ve brought sick children back from the brink of death. You’ve cured amnesia, and plague––diseases I have no name for. You could have done it.” Then he turned away, moving back to the fire. She hardly registered this, grasping at whatever was pinning her hand to the wall. She found the grip of a knife, its leather handle grooved with use, and yanked it free, fighting an overwhelming dizziness that tilted the floor and threatened to send her sprawling. All the while, she never made a sound, her vocal cords locked tight in her tremendous pain. “My sister is dead,” He continued. “But this isn’t about her. This is about you, doctor. You, and the trail of dead bodies you leave behind wherever you go.”
Mel squeezed the handle of the knife, holding in a groan of agony, fighting for clarity as the world tried to slip away. With the full force of her will she focused on the black shape of Szukin, focused on the knife in her hand, focused on taking slow, quiet steps. She saw Father Pacifica, shuddering on the ground where she put him. She saw the Shribe, burning to the ground, the path of the worm still burrowed through the earth. She was just five feet from his back. It would only take one smooth motion, one carefully calculated swing; one flash of the steel blade to end a year of fleeing across countries and islands and seas, through dust storms and blizzards; one cut, surgical and precise, to end the trail of dead bodies, neglecting that it may start an entirely new one.
It only took one.
EPILOGUE
Julius,
I apologize for the length between my last letter and this one. My hand is finally starting to heal, and my fingers are dexterous enough that I feel confident my script will be legible to you, even being a doctor and all (ha–ha!). Besides that, as you know, I have been dictating my letters aloud to one of the caretakers, Maria, who continues to watch the clinic with me as I mend––and so I have had to forego all sensitive subjects in the pursuit of privacy. Consider that a non-issue from now on.
Progress on Calcifer’s notes is slow. I hope that, being able to write again, this will change in the coming weeks; Maria is a good friend and faithful scribe, but painfully slow-handed. So far, I have worked out many of the diagrams for Calcifer’s centrifuge. I believe the time to find a machinist may be near. Would you poke around in Lochan on my behalf? I will even accompany you, if you’re willing to fetch me (speaking of––how is Circumstance II? Is she treating you as well as the first?).
No news on our royal friend. It seems that he travelled past Wall Bal’Lhord alone. But then, news does not travel so well up here, where there are no waking mouths. Update me in your response, if you would.
I have looked over the notes concerning the foxtail draught in full now. I think it would be safe to increase by half the dosage we discussed, based on the effects as you have described them so far. If you experience abdominal pain, back off. Keep recording the changes as you see them––spare no detail (I am a doctor, remember––you can’t embarrass me!). As well, please update me on how your parents are taking the news––if I need to write another letter, I will. Your father may be a large man, but he owes me a few favors.
I look forward to hearing from you again. Nothing against the caretakers, but I miss having someone to talk to frankly––I think they are afraid I will stop paying them if they disagree. We must arrange a visit soon––the walls of this house are starting to feel like a prison. Bring tea.
With love,
Amelia “Mel” Saul
P.S. Maria asked me to tell you ‘hello’, since she can’t write her own post-scripts anymore. She seems to have taken a liking to you in the last few visits––behave, kids.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dear Mel,
Have I ever told you that you write like an old person? Because you do. I know you like to pretend that you’re a goddamned wizard locked away in your tower, but lighten up. The Republic isn’t intercepting our letters––and if they are, they can come fight me!
I have some news of my own on Calcifer, actually. I wrote to Netsa ages ago, about Aspen and his library. I didn’t know if they got it––and they aren’t really allowed to respond, so I figured I never would––but I just got a letter from her this week! She says they mounted a miniature expedition to look fo
r him, and they did find the library, but there was nobody inside. It did seem lived in, though. My suspicion is that Aspen was hanging from the ceiling like a bat, waiting for them to leave so he could go back to his books. Please do not explain to me why this is scientifically impossible.
I have heard nothing official about our royal friend. But there are rumors that the Prince has been abducted and killed by revolutionaries in the Ajan Shore. Apparently they’re on the brink of civil war over there. If you are reading this, Republic, we didn’t do that. It was probably Mana. Do you ever think about Mana? I think about them a lot. I’m rambling.
I am very happily brewing my dose-and-a-half as we speak. Ma and Pa are taking it pretty okay––I think you scared him a little with the wording of that letter. He doesn’t usually see the word ‘cantankerous’ (spelling?), so he did some serious thinking with about five pounds of tobacco behind the shed and now he’s pretty okay. Still gets my name wrong sometimes, but that’s life. Ma is a lot better about it.
Not to get mushy, but thank you. I can’t imagine how different my life would be if I had never met you. Probably never would’ve left the province, except to do little jobs––now look at me! Halfway to starting a guild of my own.
Take a break from your papers––you deserve it.
Yours Truly,
Julius Casperan
P.S. You should prepare a bag, because by the time you receive this letter I will already be sailing in your direction. We’re going to Lochan for a machinist––bring money.
P.P.S. Maria is tiny and cute and nothing you can do will dissuade me from charming her with my huge muscles.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Julius set the inkwell down, a grin dominating his square features. In the past few months, he felt distinctly at ease––he wondered if that was because he had found his stride, or because of the foxtail draught. He suspected it was a little bit of both.
He looked out the window and into the boundless blue day. From his bedroom window, he could see the ocean on the horizon: a burning, rippling line of gold under the warm summer sun. He followed the horizon north with his eyes. Somewhere up there, Mel was in her own home, bent over her notes, sweating in the gaze of the window––hard at work, but certainly happier than she had been in a long time. It seemed like both of them had found their strides.
He stood up, setting aside the jar of foxtail draught on his desk and sealing its hermetic lid, then stuffing it in an old leather bag with some other odds and ends––clothes, gauze, some of his guild earnings. He didn’t know exactly what he would need on the trip; he hadn’t even told his parents of his intent to go yet. But he found he was deeply curious if he could outrace the letter to Cloudless; the day was bright and clear, the wind steady, and the Circumstance II was a sure sail.
He had a feeling that he’d be perfectly fine.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Fin.
Calcifer Page 24